"IFT   OF 
MICHAEL  ?IZiE 


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Conversations 


ON    SOME   OF 


THE   OLD    POETS. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

Witb  an  1Intro&uction 

BY 

ROBERT   ELLIS  THOMPSON,  S.  T.  D. 


"  Or,  if  I  would  delight  my  private  hours 
With  music  or  with  poem,  where,  so  soon 
As  in  our  native  language,  can  I  find 
That  solace?" — Paradise  Regained. 


THIRD   EDITION   ENLARGED. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

DAVID    McKAY,    PUBLISHER, 

2}  South    Ninth   Street. 

1893. 


•mKiTVTrTiftTTtr  1 


CoPYRir.HT,  1893,  BY  DAVID   McKay. 


TO 

MY   FATHER, 

CHARLES  LOWELL,   D.  D., 

WHOM,  IF  I   HAD  NOT  THE 

HIGHER  PRIVILEGE  OF  REVERING  AS  A  PARENT, 
I  SHOULD  STILL  HAVE 

HONORED  AS  A   MAX  AND   LOVED  AS  A   FRIEND, 
THIS  VOLUME, 

CONTAIXIXG   MANY    OPINIONS    FROM  'WHICH  HE  WILL 

WHOLLY,  YET   WITH    THE   LARGE  CHARITY   OP 

A  CHRISTIAN    HEART,   DISSENT, 

IS  INSCRIBED 

BY    HIS 

YOUNGEST    CHILD. 


"Hail,  bards  of  mightier  grasp!  on  you 
I  chiefly  call,  the  chosen  few, 
Who  cast  not  off  the  acknowledged  guide, 
\  Who  faltered  not,  nor  turned  aside; 
Whose  lofty  genius  could  survive 
Privation,  under  sorrow  thrive." 

Wordsworth. 


CNIVERBITT 

if'ornia^  / 


VC4/. 


EDITOR'S  INTRODUCTION. 


These  "Conversations  on  the  Old  Poets"  were 
published  early  in  1845,  and  appeared  again  in  a  re- 
vised edition  in  1846.  They  also  were  reprinted  in 
London  in  1845,  but  have  been  out  of  print  for 
many  years.  In  his  "  Lectures  on  the  Old  English 
Dramatists"  (delivered  in  1887,  and  published,  after 
his  death,  in  1892),  Mr.  Lowell  speaks  of  the  "Con- 
versations" as  "now  a  rare  book"  which  he  himself 
had  not  seen  "  for  many  years."  He  added  that  "  it 
was  mainly  about  the  Old  English  dramatists,  if  I  am 
not  mistaken,"  and  gives  1843  as  its  date.  This  avow- 
edly imperfect  recollection  of  the  book  qualifies  his 
adverse  criticism  of  it.  As  it  was  then  more  than  forty 
years  since  he  had  published  it,  and  as  not  less  than 
fifteen  volumes  of  his  verse  and  prose  had  appeared  in 
the  mean  time,  he  well  might  forget  other  things  than 
its  date. 

To  the  editor  it  was  a  day  to  be  marked  with  a 
Mdiite  stone  when  he  first  met  with  it,  and  his  delight 
was  shared  by  others  of  his  age.     In  our  college  years, 


vi  EDITOR'S  INTRODUCTION. 

wliich  coiucifled  with  those  of  the  War,  we  quarrelled 
amicably  over  the  relative  claims  of  Mr.  Lowell  aud 
of  Mr.  Longfellow  to  the  first  place  amoug  the  Ameri- 
can jioets.     Those  of  us  who  held  by  the  less  popular 
poet  of  course  were  in  the  minority ;  but  we  made  up 
in  emphasis  what  we  lacked  in  numbers.     This  little 
volume  of  twenty  years  before  was  a  godsend  to  us,  as 
showing  in  what  fields  our  master  had  nourished  his 
genius.     We  shared  in  that  glow  Mr.  Steadman  speaks 
of  as  felt  by  students  of  a  still  earlier  time,  when  Mr. 
Lowell's  "  early  lectures  and  essays  directed  them  to 
a  sense  of  what  is  best  in  English  song."     Maturer 
judgment  brings  us  to  see,  as  did  its  author,  the  defects 
of  the  book.     But  we  would  deprecate  the  notion  that 
even  his  later  survey  of  the  same  fields  has  superseded 
the  first  and  freshest  of  his  labors  as  a  critic. 

As  for  the  faults  of  the  book,  Mr.  Lowell's  reputa- 
tion can  better  afford  them  than  our  literature  can 
afford  its  suppression.  The  work  of  a  writer  in  his 
twenty-fifth  year  might  be  expected  to  contain  imma- 
ture judgments,  such  as  that  on  Ford,  which  he  reverses 
with  emphasis  in  his  «  Lectures."  There  is  also  a  super- 
abundance of  epigrammatic  point,  which  characterized 
his  prose  to  the  last.  He  never  took  to  heart  Corinna's 
advice  to  Pindar,  to  "sow  with  his  hand,  and  not  with 
the  sack's  mouth." 
The  merits  of  these  «  Conversations,"  however,  are 


EDITOR'S  INTRODUCTION.  vii 

such  as  would  countervail  greater  faults  than  these. 
One  is  their  freshness  of  impression.  "  The  work,"  says 
The  London  Spectator  of  April  22,  1893,  "  is  full  of  a 
youug  mau's  generous  enthusiasm  for  everything  that 
is  beautiful  in  poetic  thought  and  dainty  in  expression. 
The  conversational  form  allows  of  discursiveness ;  and, 
whatever  may  be  the  critical  deficiencies  of  the  book, 
it  has  the  freshness  of  youthful  delight,  and  justifies  its 
author's  claim  of  being  '  spontaneous  and  honest.' " 
Mr.  Lowell  never  was  a  critic  of  the  "  scientific  " 
type  Matthew  Arnold  bade  us  admire  in  Sainte-Beuve. 
So  much  might  be  inferred  from  the  repugnance  to  the 
French  critic's  method  he  expresses  in  his  Lectures.  He 
himself  always  was  guided  in  criticism  rather  by  his  love 
of  things  noble  and  beautiful,  and  his  hatred  of  things 
base  and  ugly,  than  by  the  canons  of  any  aesthetic 
system.  This  did  not  involve  any  carelessness  or  slov- 
enliness in  his  method  of  procedure.  His  greater 
essays  represent  an  amount  of  labor  in  preparation  far 
in  excess  of  the  week's  work  which  preceded  each  of  ' 
Sainte-Beuve's  Causeries  du  Liindi.  It  would  have  been 
quite  impossible  for  him  to  fill  thirty-six  volumes  with 
essays  of  literary  criticism.  AA^'ith  all  this  thorough- 
ness, however,  Mr.  Lowell  may  be  called  an  impres- 
sionist critic.  He  is  never  impersonal.  He  gives  us 
the  thought  and  emotion  which  is  produced  in  him  by 
contact  with  a  work  of  literary  art,  while  he  spares  no 


viii  EDITORS  INTRODUCTION. 

pains  tliat  this  contact  may  be  as  complete  and  as  intel- 
ligent as  possible.  And  these  "  Conversations,"  while 
they  fall  far  short  of  his  later  essays  in  the  matter  of 
exhaustive  preparation,  do  report  for  us  what  he 
received  from  our  earlier  writers  at  a  time  when  his 
mind  was  most  susceptible  to  impression. 

They  also  are  of  permanent  value  because  of  the 
place  they  fill  in  the  development  of  literary  criticism 
in  America.  During  the  first  quarter  of  the  Century 
The  Portfolio  (Philadelphia,  1800-1827)  was  the  chief 
authority  in  such  matters,  and  represented,  in  rather  a 
feeble  way,  the  canons  laid  down  by  Dr.  Johnson,  scoff- 
ing at  Wordsworth  and  his  fellow-innovators.  Dr. 
Channing,  with  his  three  magnificent  essays  on  "  ]Mil- 
ton,"  "  pjonaparte,"  and  "  Feuelon  "  (in  The  Christian 
Examiner  for  1826-1829),  illustrated  the  large  and 
broad-minded  criticism  of  the  best  Euglisli  school. 
More  directly  literary  was  the  work  done  in  The  New 
York  Review  (1837-1841)  by  Torrey,  Allen,  Shedd, 
and  others  of  the  young  Coleridgeans,  who  had  sat  at 
the  feet  of  Dr.  James  Mai-sh  at  Middlebury.  Then 
came  the  little  group  of  Transcendentalists  with  their 
remarkable  quarterly,  Tlie  D/W  (1840-1 843),  who  rep- 
resented new  infiuences  from  German  culture,  and  pro- 
claimed emancipation  from  all  traditions. 

It  was  in  this  literary  spring-time  that  Mr.  Lowell 
began  to  write,  and  he  was  the  first  in  America  to 


EDITORS  INTRODUCTION.  ix 

exemplify  that  new  interest  iu  early  English  literature 
which  Coleridge,  Lamb,  Southey,  Hazlitt,  and  others 
had  awakened  iu  England.  These  "  Conversations,"  I 
believe,  were  our  earliest  important  and  intelligent 
venture  in  that  field.  They  were  the  forerunner  of 
the  labors  of  Childs,  Hudson,  \Miipple,  Lounsbury, 
and  other  American  scholars,  and  of  the  Boston 
alition  of  the  British  poets,  in  which  Mr.  Lowell 
was  to  edit  the  works  of  Donne,  jSIarvell,  Keats, 
Wordsworth,  and  Shelley.  And  no  field  of  study 
outside  our  own  literature  can  equal  this  in  inter- 
est and  importance  to  Americans.  Whilst  English 
literature  since  Milton  has  flowed  in  a  channel  different 
from  American,  iu  Milton  and  all  that  precedes  him, 
back  even  to  "  Beowulf,"  we  have  the  succession  of 
writers  who  are  our  own  intellectual  ancestry,  and  who 
belong  to  us  as  much  as  to  the  later  English  people 
In  some  respects  even  more,  for  the  traditions  of  old 
English  speech  have  been  better  maintained  in  Ameri- 
can than  English  use ;  and  phrases  in  Shakespeare  and 
Massinger,  M'hich  call  for  explanatory  notes  in  English 
editions,  often  need  none  for  Americans.  And  what  is 
true  of  the  speech  may  be  true  often  of  the  mood  also. 
In  our  less  conventional  world  Chaucer  ought  to  be 
more  intelligible  than  in  a  society  which  has  lost  fluid- 
ity and  spontaneity. 

It  was  therefore  no  small  service  to  direct  American 


X  EDITORS  INTRODUCTION. 

readei-s  to  their  birthright  in  the  older  English  litera- 
ture. And  when  this  was  done  with  a  charm  of 
manner,  a  keenness  of  wit,  and  a  beautj  of  literary 
form  which  made  the  criticism  itself  a  work  of  art,  the 
service  was  the  greater. 

An  admiring  critic  of  these  "Conversations"  re- 
marks that  they  should  be  read  in  connection  with  Mr. 
Lowell's  essays  on  kindred  themes  in    The  Pioneer 
That  short-lived  monthly,  "edited  by  James  Eussell 
Lowell  and  Robert  Carter,"  ran  through  three  numbers 
m  the  opening  months  of  1843,  but  is  now  very  scarce. 
To  this  edition  of  the  "Conversations"  have   been 
appended    the  two   papers  on   "Middleton"  and  on 
"The  English  Song- Writers "  which  Mr.  Lowell  con- 
tributed  to  the  first  two  numbers.     The  third  number 
contains  nothing  of  his   but  a   brief  poem  and  an 
apology  for  his  failure  to  supply  an  essay-an  omis- 
sion, he  says,  due  to  the  condition  of  his  eyes. 


TO  THE  READER. 


A  PREFACE  is  always  either  au  apology  or  an  ex- 
planation ;  and  a  good  book  needs  neither.  That  I 
write  one,  then,  proves  that  I  am  diffident  of  the 
merit  of  this  volume,  to  a  greater  degree,  even,  than 
an  author  must  necessarily  be. 

For  the  minor  faults  of  the  book,  the  hurry  with 
which  it  has  been  prepared  must  plead  in  extenuation, 
since  it  was  in  process  of  writing  and  printing  at  the 
same  time,  so  that  I  could  never  estimate  its  propor- 
tions as  a  whole.  This  must  excuse  the  too  great 
length  of  the  First  Conversation,  which  I  should  have 
divkled,  hud  I  known  in  time  how  it  would  have 
grown  under  my  hands.  Some  repetitions  may  also 
occur,  which  I  trust  the  candid  reader  will  refer  to  the 
same  exculpatory  cause 

The  substance  of  the  two  other  Conversations  ap- 
peared more  than  two  years  ago  in  the  '*  Boston  Mis- 
cellany," a  magazine  conducted  by  my  friend  N. 
Hale,  Jr.,  Esq.     The  articles,  as  then   written,   met 


xii  TO  THE  READER. 

with  some  approbation,  and  I  had  often  been  urged  to 
reprint  them  by  friends  with  whose  wishes  it  was  as 
well  my  duty  as  my  delight  to  comply.  Yet,  I  con- 
fess, I  felt  strongly  reluctant  in  this  matter ;  and  my 
reluctance  increased,  after  looking  over  the  articles 
and  seeing  how  imperfect  they  were. 

It  then  occurred  to  me,  that,  by  throwing  them  into 
the  form  of  conversations,  greater  freedom  would  be 
given  them,  and  that  discursiveness,  which  was  their 
chief  fault,  (among  many  others,  of  style,)  would  find 
readier  pardon.  Some  of  the  deepest  as  well  as  the 
most  delightful  books  have  been  written  in  this  form 
in  our  own  language,  not  to  speak  of  its  prevalent  use 
among  the  Greeks  and  Latins.  I  need  only  mention 
the  names  of  Izaak  "Walton,  Walter  Savage  Landor, 
and  Home  Tooke,  to  recall  to  mind  three  of  the  most 
prominent  among  many  English  examples."* 

I  had  no  intention  of  giving  them  anything  like  a 
dramatic  turn,  and  trust  I  shall  not  so  be  censured. 
They  are  merely  essays,  divided  in  this  way  to  allow 
them  greater  ease  and  frankness,  and  the  privilege  of 
wandering  at  will.  That  this  license  has  not  been 
carried  to  a  greater  degree  than  is  warranted  by  the 
usual  suggestiveness  of  conversation  will,  I  trust,  be 
conceded.      If  some  of  the   topics   introduced   seem 

*Among  the  pleasantest  recent  writings  in  this  form.  T  would 
mention  "  The  Philosophy  of  Mystery,"  hy  W.  C.  Dendy,  M.  D. 


TO  THE  READER.  xiii 

foreign  to  the  subject,  I  can  only  say.  that  tlicy  arc 
not  so  to  my  mind,  and  that  an  author's  object  in 
writing  criticisms  is  not  only  to  bring  to  light  the 
beauties  of  tlie  works  he  is  considering,  but  also  to  ex- 
press his  own  opinions  upon  those  and  other  matters. 

Wishing,  as  I  did,  to  preserve  as  far  as  possible 
unaltered,  whatever  had  given  pleasui'e  to  others  in 
the  articles  as  already  written,  I  experienced  many 
difficulties.  It  is  impossible  to  weld  cast-iron,  and  I 
had  not  time  to  melt  it  and  recast  it. 

I  am  not  bold  enough  to  esteem  these  essays  of  any 
great  price.  Standing  as  yet  only  in  the  outer  porch 
of  life,  I  cannot  be  expected  to  report  of  those  higher 
mysteries  which  lie  unrevealed  in  the  body  of  the 
temple.  Yet,  as  a  child,  when  he  has  found  but  a 
mean  pebble,  which  differs  from  ordinary  only  so 
much  as  by  a  stripe  of  quartz  or  a  stain  of  iron,  calls 
his  companions  to  behold  his  treasure,  which  to  them 
also  affords  matter  of  delight  and  wonder ;  so  I  cannot 
but  hope  that  my  little  findings  may  be  pleasant  and 
haply  instructive  to  some  few. 

An  author's  opinions  should  be  submitted  to  no 
arbitration  but  that  of  solitude  and  his  own  conscience; 
but  many  defects  and  blemishes  in  his  mode  of  ex- 
pressing them  may  doubtless  be  saved  him  by  submit- 
ting his  work,  before  publication,  to  the  judgment  of 
some  loving  friend, — and  if  to  the  more  refined  eye 


xiv  TO  THE  READER. 

of  a  woman,  the  better.     But  the  liaste  with  Avhich 
these  pages  have  been  prepared  and  printed  lias  pre- 
chided  all  but  a  very  trifling  portion  of  them  from 
being  judged  by  any  eye  save  my  own. 
Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass. 


,^  iUX»ilVEEbITI  '. 

CONVERSATIONS 


FIRST  CONVERSATION. 


CHAUCER. 

JOHN. 

Heee,  you  are,  I  see,  as  usual,  ramparted  around 
with  musty  volumes  of  the  old  poets.  I  remember 
how  you  used  to  pore  over  them  in  the  college 
library.  Are  you  not  afraid  that  the  wheels  of  your 
mind  will  get  choked  with  the  dust  that  rises  out  of 
these  dry  mummy-pits  ? 

PHILIP. 

Even  if  I  were  to  allow  the  justice  of  your  last 
metaphor,  I  could  reply  that  the  dust  is  at  least  that 
of  kings.  You  must  remember,  also,  that  even  this 
dust  is  not  M'ithout  its  uses.  The  rich  brown  pigment 
which  our  painters  use  is  made  out  of  it; — another 
material  illustration  of  the  spiritual  truth,  that  nothing 
which  ever  had  a  meaning  for  mankind  loses  it  by 
the  lapse  of  years. 

JOHN. 

It  may,  however,  become  so  overgrown  with  moss  as 
hardly  to  repay  the  labor  of  the  restoring  chisel.     But 


2  FIBST  CONVERSATION. 

to  return  to  our  mummies.  Our  modern  poets  seem 
fully  aware  of  the  fact,  that  what  is  true  of  oue  art  is 
true  also  of  all  the  others.  They  are  as  fond  of  using 
this  coloring,  made  out  of  dead  men's  bones,  as  the 
painters.  One  must  be  turning  at  every  stanza  to  his 
glossary,  in  order  to  understand  them,  so  full  are  they 
of  archaisms.  They  seem  to  have  plagiarized  from  the 
cheesemongers,  who  iuoculate  their  new  cheeses  with  a 
bit  of  mould,  to  give  them  the  flavor  of  old  ones. 

PHILIP. 

An  imitation  of  style  is  one  thing;  the  use  of  the 
same  material  is  quite  another.  The  marble  of  Pen- 
telicus  may  be  carved  into  other  shapes  as  noble  as 
the  Phoebus  or  the  Jupiter.  It  has  no  prejudice  in 
favor  of  the  Greek  mythology ;  and  Hiram  Powers,  I 
fancy,  can  persuade  it  to  look  godlike  even  in  a  coat 
and  pantaloons.  Language  is  the  marble  in  which  the 
poet  carves ;  and,  if  he  find  that  which  the  old  poets 
used  aptest  to  his  hand,  let  him  not  mar  his  work  from 
an  idle  prejudice  in  favor  of  the  quarries  of  Berkshire 
or  Vermont.  You  find  no  fault  with  Crawford's 
Orpheus,  which  sends  you  to  your  Lempriere,  as  you 
complain  that  the  modern  poets  do  to  your  glossary. 
Yet  that  statue  is  the  more  'guilty  of  the  two ;  for  that 
is  an  attempt  to  resuscitate  the  Greek  spirit,  while 
these  only  use  what  they  think  the  best  material  in 
which  to  convey  an  idea  of  to-day.  Pericles  would 
be  the  fittest  critic  of  that ;  but  oue  of  our  old  dra- 
matists would  soon  fiud  himself  beyond  his  depth  in 
these. 


CHA  UCER.  3 

JOHN. 

You  have  touched  mc  in  a  tender  spot.  I  admit 
that  the  fault  is  not  confined  to  our  poets.  Our  sculp- 
tors run  to  Greece,  and  our  painters  to  Italy.  Oiu* 
Quincy  stonecutters,  in  their  Corinthian  columns,  show 
almost  as  much  originality  of  design.  I  have  seen 
portraits  of  New  York  ladies  after  the  Fornarina,  and 
the  Washington  in  our  State-house  has  borrowed  the 
toga  of  Fabius  to  hide  his  continental  uniform  under. 
This  is  what  is  called  being  classical ;  and  it  is  so  in- 
deed, after  "  the  high  Roman  fashion  ;"  for  the  Romans 
plundered  a  temple  of  its  gold  and  its  gods  at  the  same 
time,  stealino;  the  ideas  as  well  as  the  freedom  of  the 
nation  they  subjugated.  This  gave  point  to  the  saying 
of  one  of  their  countrymen,  that  Greece  had  made  a 
slave  of  her  conqueror.  I  see  the  distinction  you 
■would  make  between  the  poets  and  their  brother  artists, 
but  I  am  not  yet  ready  to  admit  its  justice. 

PHILIP. 

If  you  have  seen  the  distinction,  you  have  already 
admitted  its  justice.      I  would  find  no  fault  with  the 
painter  who  should  drawthe  Virgin  with  a  glory  about 
her  head  ;  for  that  is  as  easily  credible  now  as  in  Giot- 
to's day.     The  intellect  may  be  skeptical,  but  the  heafn 
will  believe  any  beautiful  miracle  in  behalf  of  what  \ 
lit  loves  or  reveres;  and  the  heart,  after  all,  will  have  \ 
the  last  word  in  such  matters.     So  the  naked  figure  is 
in  itself  beautiful ;  but  that  would  be  no  apology  for 
putting  Franklin's  head  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  An- 
tinous.      Yet  there  are  examples  enough  of  such  fool- 
ishness.    Our  artists  seem  to  think  that  none  but  a 


4  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

Greek  or  Roman  costume  is  admissible  at  the  court  of 
posterity.  Yet  posterity  is  delighted  to  greet  Burns  in 
his  clouted  shoou,  and  I  am  sure  would  never  receive 
Washington  (who  knew  better)  in  the  indecent  undress 
of  a  Roman  statue.  With  our  poets  the  case  is  differ- 
ent. They  have  adopted  the  style  of  those  who  used 
our  noble  language  ere  it  had  been  crossed  with  the 
French.  The  dialect,  too,  which  was  contemporary 
with  our  translation  of  the  Bible,  will  for  that  reason, 
if  for  no  other,  carry  a  greater  solemnity  with  it  than 
that  of  any  later  period.  'The  English  of  that  day  is 
racy  with  the  old  Saxon  idiom,J\vhich  was  dear  to  the 
mass  of  the  people,  and  which'  still  maintains  its  gripe 
upon  all  the  natural  feelings,  with  which  poetry  has 
most  to  do.  Forms  and  conventionalities  put  on,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  the  court-dress  of  the  ISTorman  con- 
querors ;  but  the  heart  clung  sturdily  to  its  old  Saxon 
homespun,  and  felt  the  warmer  for  it.  You  talk  about 
the  golden  age  of  Queen  Anne.  It  was  a  French 
pinchbeck  age. 

JOHN. 

Stay,  not  so  fast.  I  like  the  writers  of  that  period, 
for  the  transparency  of  their  style,  and  their  freedom 
from  affectation.  If  I  may  trust  my  understanding  of 
your  meaning,  our  modern  versifiers  have  only  made 
the  simple  discovery,  that  an  appearance  of  antiquity  is 
the  cheapest  passport  to  respect.  But-  the  cheapest 
whicli  we  purchase  with  subservience  is  too  dear.  You 
yourself  have  no  such  prejudice  against  tiie  Augustan 
age  of  English  literature.     I  have  caught  you  more 


CIIA  UCEE.  5 

than  once  with   the  Tatler  in  your  hand,  and  have 
heard  you  praising  Drydcu's  prefaces. 

PHILIP. 

You  and  I  have  very  different  notions  of  M'liat 
poetry  is,  and  of  what  its  object  should  be.  You  may 
claim  for  Pope  the  merit  of  an  envious  eye,  which 
could  turn  the  least  scratch  u])on  the  character  of  a 
friend  into  a  fester, — of  a  nimble  and  adroit  fancy,  and 
of  an  ear  so  niggardly  that  it  could  aiford  but  one 

(invariable  ctesura  to  his  verse;  but  when  you  call  him 
poet,  you  insult  the  buried  majesty  of  all  earth's  no- 
blest and  choicest  spirits.  Nature  should  lead  the  true 
poet  by  the  hand,  and  he  has  far  better  things  to  do 
than  to  busy  himself  in  counting  the  warts  upon  it,  as 
Pope  did.  A  cup  of  water  from  Hijipocrene,  tasting, 
as  it  must,  of  innocent  pastoral  sights  and  sounds,  of 
the  bleat  of  lambs,  of  the  shadows  of  leaves  and 
flowers  that  have  leaned  over  it,  of  the  rosy  hands  of 
children  whose  privilege  it  ever  is  to  paddle  in  it,  of 
the  low  words  of  lovers  who  have  walked  by  its  side  in 
the  moonlight,  of  the  tears  of  the  poor  Hagars  of  the 
world  who  have  drunk  from  it,  w^ould  choke  a  satirif^' 
His  thoughts  of  the  country  must  have  a  savor  of  Jac 
Ketch,  and  see  no  beauty  but  in  a  hemp-field.  /Poeti_ 
is  something  to  make  us  Aviser  and  better,  by  contin- 
ually revealing  those  types  of  beaut}'  and  truth  which 
God  has  set  in  all  men's  souls; 'not  by  picking  out  the 
petty  faults  of  our  neighbors  to  make  a  mock  of. 
Shall  that  divine  instinct,  which  has  in  all  ages  con- 
cerned itself  only  with  Avhat  is  holiest  and  fairest  in 
life  and  nature,  degrade  itself  to  go  about  seeking  for 


FIRST  CONVERSATION. 


the  scabs  and  ulcers  of  the  putridest  spirits,  to  grin 
over  with  a  derision  more  hideous  even  than  the 
pitiful  quarry  it  has  moused  at  ?  /  Asmodeus's  gift,  of 
unroofing  the  dwellings  of  his  neighbors  at  will,  would 
be  the  rarest  outfit  for  a  satirist,  but  it  would  be  of  no 
worth  to  a  poet.  To  the  satirist  the  mere  outward 
motives  of  life  are  enough.  Vanity,  pride,  avarice, — 
these,  and  the  other  external  vices,  are  the  strings  of 
his  unmusical  lyre.  But  the  poet  need  only  unroof  his 
own  heart.  All  that  makes  happiness  or  misery  under 
every  roof  of  the  wide  world,  whether  of  palace  or 
hovel,  is  working  also  in  that  narrow  yet  boundless 
sphere.  On  that  little  stage  the  great  drama  of  life  is 
acted  daily.  There  the  creation,  the  tempting,  and  the 
fall  may  be  seen  anew.  In  that  withdrawing  closet, 
solitude  whispers  her  secrets,  and  death  uncovers  his 
face.  There  sorrow  takes  up  her  abode,  to  make  ready 
a  pillow  and  a  resting-place  for  the  weary  head  of  love, 
whom  the  whole  world  casts  out.  To  the  poet  nothing 
is  moan,  but  everything  on  earth  is  a  fitting  altar  to 
the  supreme  beauty.  I 

But  I  am  wandering.  As  for  the  poets  of  Queen 
Anne's  reigu,  it  is  enough  to  prove  what  a  kennel 
standard  of  poetry  was  then  established,  that  Swift's 
snuitchy  verses  are  not  even  yet  excluded  from  the 
collections.  What  disgusting  stuff,  too,  in  Prior  and 
Parnell !  Yet  Swift,  perhaps,  was  the  best  writer  of 
Engli.sh  whom  that  period  produced.  Witness  his 
prose.  Pope  treated  the  English  language  as  the 
image-man  has  served  the  bust  of  Shakespeare  yonder. 
To  rid  it  of  some  external.soils,  he  has  rubbed  it  down 
till  there  is  no  muscular  expression  left.     It  looks  very 


CITA  UCER.  7 

much  as  his  own  "  mockery  king  of  snow"  must  have 
done  after  it  had  begun  to  melt.  Pope  is  for  ever 
mixino;  water  with  the  good  old  mother's  milk  of  our 
tongue.  You  cannot  get  a  straightforward  speech  out 
of  him.  A  great  deal  of  his  poetry  is  so  incased  in 
verbiage,  that  it  puts  me  in  mind  of  those  important- 
looking  packages  which  boys  are  fond  of  sending  to 
their  friends.  We  unfold  envelope  after  envelope,  and 
at  last  find  a  couple  of  cherry-stones.  But  in  Pope  we 
miss  the  laugh  which  in  the  other  case  follows  the  cul- 
mination of  the  joke.  He  makes  Homer  lisp  like  the 
friar  in  Chaucer,  and  Ajax  and  Belinda  talk  exactly 
alike. 

JOIIX. 

^Vell,  we  are  not  discussing  the  merits  of  Pope,  but 
of  the  archaisms  which  have  been  introduced  into 
modern  poetry.  What  you  say  of  the  Bible  has  some 
force  in  it.  The  forms  of  speech  used  in  our  version 
of  it  will  always  impress  the  mind,  even  if  a2)plied  to 
an  entirely  diiferent  subject.  What  else  can  you  bring 
forward  ? 

PHILIP. 

Only  the  fact,  that,  by  going  back  to  the  more  nat- 
ural style  of  the  Elizabethan  writers,  our  verse  has 
gained  in  harmony  as  well  as  strength.  No  matter 
whether  Pope  is  describing  the  cane  of  a  fop  or  the 
speech  of  a  demigod,  the  pause  must  always  fall  on 
tlie  same  syllable,  and  the  sense  be  chopped  off  by  the 
same  rhyme.  Achilles  cannot  gallop  his  horses  round 
the  Avails  of  Troy,  with  Hector  dragging  behind  his 
chariot,  except  he  keep  time  to  the  immitigable  seesaw 
of  the  cou2ilet. 


6  FIEST  CONVERSATION. 

the  scabs  and  ulcers  of  the  putridest  spirits,  to  grin 
over  "with  a  derision  more  hideous  even  than  the 
pitiful  quarry  it  has  moused  at? /Asmodeus's  gift,  of 
unroofing  the  dwellings  of  his  neighbors  at  will,  "would 
be  the  rarest  outfit  for  a  satirist,  but  it  would  be  of  no 
worth  to  a  poet.  /  To  the  satirist  the  mere  outward 
motives  of  life  are  enough.  Vanity,  pride,  avarice, — 
these,  and  the  other  external  vices,  are  the  strings  of 
his  unmusical  lyre.  But  the  poet  need  only  unroof  his 
own  heart.  All  that  makes  happiness  or  misery  under 
every  roof  of  the  wide  world,  whether  of  palace  or 
hovel,  is  working  also  in  that  narrow^  yet  boundless 
sphere.  On  that  little  stage  the  great  drama  of  life  is 
acted  daily.  There  the  creation,  the  tempting,  and  the 
fall  may  be  seen  anew.  In  that  withdrawing  closet, 
solitude  whispers  her  secrets,  and  death  uncovers  his 
face.  There  sorrow  takes  up  her  abode,  to  make  ready 
a  pillow  and  a  resting-place  for  the  weary  head  of  love, 
whom  the  whole  world  casts  out.  To  the  poet  nothing 
is  mean,  but  everything  on  earth  is  a  fitting  altar  to 
the  supreme  beauty.  ' 

But  I  am  wandering.  As  for  the  poets  of  Queen 
Anne's  reign,  it  is  enough  to  prove  what  a  kennel 
standard  of  poetry  was  then  established,  that  Swift's 
smutchy  verses  are  not  even  yet  excluded  from  the 
collections.  "What  disgusting  stuif,  too,  in  Prior  and 
Parncll !  Yet  Swift,  perhaps,  was  the  best  writer  of 
English  whom  that  period  produced.  AVitness  his 
prose.  Pope  treated  the  English  language  as  the 
image-man  has  served  the  bust  of  Shakespeare  yonder. 
To  rid  it  of  some  external  soils,  he  has  rubl)ed  it  down 
till  there  is  no  muscular  expression  left.     It  looks  very 


CITA  UCER.  7 

much  as  his  own  "  mockery  king  of  snow"  must  have 
done  after  it  had  begun  to  melt,  l^ope  is  for  ever 
mixing  water  with  the  good  old  mother's  milk  of  our 
tongue.  You  cannot  get  a  straightforward  speech  out 
of  him.  A  great  deal  of  his  poetry  is  so  incased  in 
verbiage,  that  it  puts  me  in  mind  of  those  important- 
looking  padvages  which  boys  are  fond  of  sending  to 
their  friends.  We  unfold  envelope  after  envelope,  and 
at  last  find  a  couple  of  clierry-stones.  But  in  Pope  we 
miss  the  kiugli  whicli  in  the  other  ease  follows  the  cul- 
mination of  the  joke.  He  makes  Homer  lis])  like  the 
friar  in  Chaucer,  and  Ajax  and  Belinda  talk  exactly 
alike. 

JOIIX. 

Well,  we  are  not  discussing  the  merits  of  Pope,  but 
of  tlie  archaisms  which  have  been  introduced  into 
modern  poetry.  What  you  say  of  the  Bible  has  some 
force  in  it.  The  forms  of  speech  used  in  our  version 
of  it  will  always  impress  the  mind,  even  if  applied  to 
an  entirely  diiferent  subject.  What  else  can  you  bring 
forward  ? 

PHILIP, 

Only  the  fact,  that,  by  going  back  to  the  more  nat- 
ural style  of  the  Elizabethan  writers,  our  verse  has 
gained  in  liarmony  as  well  as  strength.  No  matter 
Avhether  Pope  is  describing  the  cane  of  a  fop  or  the 
speech  of  a  demigod,  the  pause  must  always  fall  on 
the  same  sylkible,  and  the  sense  be  chopped  off  by  the 
same  rhyme.  Achilles  cannot  gallop  his  horses  round 
the  Avails  of  Troy,  with  Hector  dragging  behind  his 
chariot,  except  he  keep  time  to  the  immitigable  seesaw 
of  the  couplet. 


8  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

JOHN. 
But  all  verse  and  rhyme  are  as  artificial  as  you  say 
Pope's  caesura  is.  Conceive  of  Macbeth,  a  monarch 
who  classed  "fools,  minstrels,  and  bards"  together  in 
one  penal  enactment,  delivering  himself  in  blank 
verse !  * 

PHIUP. 

Shakespeare  knew  better  than  he  did  how  he  ought  to 
have  talked.  But  I  do  not  agree  with  you  that  either 
rhyme  or  verse  is  unnatural.  In  the  mind  and  utter- 
ance of  the  true  poet,  every  thought  and  feeling  as 
necessarily  and  unpremeditately  takes  it  proper  metre 
and  its  rhymed  or  unrhymed  shape,  as  a  flower  takes 
its  peculiar  mould  of  stem  and  leaf,  and  entices  to  its 
petals  from  the  sunshine  their  foreordained  color  and 
expression.  Nor  are  rhyme  and  metre  without  their 
originals  in  the  landscape.  The  eye  which  fails  to  per- 
ceive them  there  Avill  be  equally  incapable  of  receiving 
from  them  in  poetry  their  proper  impulses  and  effects. 
So  surely  does  Nature  furnish  us  with  symbols  and 
indices  of  whatever  is  true  and  legitimate  in  Art. 
Some  of  our  thoughts  refuse  to  be  written  except  in 
rhyme,  and,  in  the  hands  of  a  true  poet,  this  is  no 
hindrance,  but  the  rhyme  seems  always  to  have  a  mean- 
ing of  its  own,  and  to  add  to,- or  at  least  confirm,  the 
sentiment.  Metre  and  rhyme  are  like  the  skin  of  the 
grape.  The  thought  is  the  pulp.  The  one  is  needed 
to  hold  the  other  together  in  a  compact  and  beautiful 
shape.     We  may  throw  it  away,  if  we  Avill ;  but  often 

*See  Bellonden's  translation  of  Bocce's  Chronicle.  The  histo- 
rian adds,  "  Thir  and  siclik  lawis  war  usit  by  King  Makbeth  ;  throw 
quhilk  he  governit  the  rcalme  X  yeris  in  (jiid  justice." 


en  A  UCER  9 

the  cliief  spirit  and  flavor  of  the  fruit  is  to  be  pressed 
out  of  it. 

/  \Vithout  doubt,  the  fittest  vcliicle  for  grave  and 
stately  thoughts  is  the  blank  verse ;  and  that  has  not 
been  improved  in  the  dramatic  form  since  the  old 
dramatists,  nor  in  the  epic  since  Milton.  AYordsworth 
has  been  satisfied  with  giving  us  fresh  combinations  of 
thought/ and  with  reasserting  the  dignity  and  worth  of 
the  poet's  calling.  As  far  as  metre  is  concerned,  he  is 
the  least  original  of  writers.  He  has  imitated  all  our 
masters  in  turn.  In  his  sonnets  he  has  sometimes 
emulated  successfully  the  condensed  gravity  of  Milton  ; 
but  his  blauk  verse  seldom  rises  to  the  majestic  level 
of  his  great  precursor.  He  often  reminds  us  of  Cowper, 
who  introduced  a  new  and  more  conversational  manner. 
Milton's  verse  suggests  nothing  meaner  than  the  ocean ; 
Cowper's  has  that  easy  dignity  which  does  not  become 
trivial,  even  when  it  describes  the  simmering  of  the  tea- 
kettle. I  think  that  Keats  saw  deeper  into  the  mystery 
of  this  noble  metre  than  any  modern  poet.  Tennyson 
has,  perhaps,  added  another  grace  to  it. 

JOHN. 

You  attribute  a  greater  state  and  importance  not 
only  to  the  poet's  art,  but  even  to  the  mere  mechanical 
details  of  it,  than  I  should  be  willing  to  allow.  You 
sometimes  remind  me  of  that  sect  of  sonneteers,  whom 
Charles  Lamb,  in  a  letter  to  Coleridge,  humorously 
describes  as  attributing  a  mystical  importance  to  a 
capital  O.  You  have,  however,  the  great  mass  of  the 
critics  with  you,  who  usually  pay  more  heed  to  the 
material  than  to  the  idea  which  it  conveys,  aud  who  do 


10  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

not  scruple  to  break  off  the  nose  from  a  statue,  and 
present  it  to  you  as  a  proof  of  the  excellence  of  the 
marble.  Beauty  of  form,  correctness  of  outline,  and 
aptness  for  use  (which  last,  indeed,  demands  the  other 
two)  seem  to  be  of  no  account  with  them.  Is  it  ma- 
hogany or  veneering?  is  the  question  v/ith  them,  and 
they  settle  the  matter  by  a  slash  with  their  penknives. 

riiiLip. 
The  zest  with  which  you  ran  down  your  last  meta- 
phor persuades  me  that  you  agree  with  me  at  heart. 
The  great  poets,  it  is  true,  have  not  usually  at  first 
received  the  hnprimatur  of  the  critics,  for  it  demands 
more  faith  aud  more  labor  than  they  have  to  spare,  to 
get  at  the  secret  of  anything  that  is  greatly  worth.  We 
must  wrestle  with  these  messengers  of  heaven,  as  Jacob 
did,  ere  we  obtain  their  blessing ;  and  then  they  some- 
times make  a  slave  of  our  judgment,  so  that  we  halt 
for  it  ever  after.     Richter  has  lamed  Carlyle  a  little. 

JOHN. 

All  great  ideas  come  to  us,  at  first,  like  the  gods  of 
Homer,  enveloped  in  a  blinding  mist ;  but  to  him  whom 
their  descent  to  earth  concerns,  to  him  who  stands  most 
in  need  of  their  help,  the  cloud  becomes  luminous  and 
fragrant,  and  betrays  the  divinity  behind  it.  At  pres- 
ent, these  old  poets  of  yours  are  in  the  cloudy  state  to  me. 
Perhaps  you  can  show  me  that  I  am  also  included  in 
the  benefit  of  their  errand.  Perhaps  you  can  justify  to 
me,  out  of  their  mouths,  what  now  seems  to  me  your 
extravagant  estimate  of  the  rank  which  belongs  to 
poetry. 


CHAUCER.  11 


PHILIP. 


Before  attempting  it,  let  me  add  something  which 
occurs  to  rac  on  the  subject  of  a  metrical  disposition  of 
our  words.  Whether  it  be  an  argument  in  its  favor  or 
not  I  shall  not  take  u[)oii  myself  to  say.  At  least,  the 
reflection  has  been  forced  upon  me  many  times,  and 
not  Avithout  some  touch  of  painfulness.  Even  in  my 
slight  commerce  with  society,  I  have  been  obliged  to 
notice  a  certiiin  bashfulness  which  seems  to  cloo;  men  in 
the  utterance  of  a  noble  or  generous  thought.  We' 
have  become  such  ephemerides,  such  hangers-on  of 
King  To-day,  that  we  seem  hasty  to  smother  with  a 
judicious  cough  any  allusion  to  our  dethroned  monarch, 
God.  A  harmless  kind  of  dinner-table  loyalty,  like 
that  of  the  old  Jacobites,  may  be  winked  at ;  but  thor- 
ough piety,  which  is  the  element  wherein  all  good 
thought  and  action  can  alone  subsist,  is  quite  out  of 
fashion.  We  hoard  our  paltry  nutshells  of  forms  after 
the  kernel  of  truth  which  they  were  designed  to  shelter, 
and  without  which  they  are  worthless,  has  quite  with- 
ered out  of  them.  We  spend  all  our  pains  in  preserv- 
ing the  oiFcast  garments  of  faith,  and  take  care  to  trans- 
mit to  our  children  precisely  whatever  must  ask  leave 
of  existence  from  the  moth  and  the  rust.  Now  verse 
seems  to  furnish  men  with  a  sufficient  apology  for 
giving  way  to  their  holy  enthusiasm.  It  is  the  poli- 
tician's vocation  to  give  us  only  homoeopathic  doses  of 
truth,  a  grain  of  the  medicine  to  a  whole  Niagara  of 
water  and  froth.  The  priest  is  fashioned  by  his  hear- 
ers, and  is  too  often  rather  the  pillow  of  down  for  their 
consciences,  than  the  conductor  of  the  arrowy  lightnings 


14  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

Elizabethan  dramatists  ;  but  I  have  changed  ray  mind. 
I  remember  hearing  you  say  that  the  obsoleteness  of 
Chaucer's  dialect  had  deterred  you  from  the  attempt  to 
read  him. 

JOHN. 

Yes,  I  was  desirous  of  a.  further  acquaintance  with 
a  poet  whom  Drydea  and  Pope  esteemed  worthy  of 
their  toil  in  translating.  But  he  is  impregnably 
hemmed  in  from  me  by  a  quickset  hedge  of  obscure  and 
antiquated  phrases. 

PHILIP. 

So  it  seems,  at  first  sight.  But  if  you  had  the  stout 
heart  of  the  prince  in  the  fairy  tale,  you  would  soon 
have  broken  the  charm,  and  would  have  found  the 
deserted  old  palace  suddenly  full  of  all  the  noise  and 
bustle  of  every-day  employment,  as  well  as  the  laugh- 
ter and  tears  of  every-day  life.  You  must  put  no  faith 
at  all  in  any  idea  you  may  have  got  of  Chaucer  from 
Dryden  or  Pope.  Dry  den  appreciated  his  original 
better  than  Pope ;  but  neither  of  them  had  a  particle 
of  his  humor,  nor  of  the  sim})licity  of  his  pathos.  The 
strong  point  in  Pope's  displays  of  sentiment  is  in  the 
graceful  management  of  a  cambric  handkercliief.  You 
do  not  believe  a  word  that  Hcloise  says,  and  feel  all  the 
while  that  she  is  squeezing  out  licr  tears,  as  if  from  a 
lialf-dry  sponge.  Pope  was  not  a  man  to  understand 
the  quiet  tenderness  of  Chaucer,  where  you  almost 
seem  to  hear  the  hot  tears  fall,  and  the  simple,  choking 
words  sobbed  out.  I  know  no  author  so  tender  as  he ; 
Shakcsjieare  himself  was  hardly  so.  There  is  no  decla- 
mation in  his  grief.     Dante  is  scarcclv  more  downright 


CHA  UCER.  1^ 

and  plain.  To  show  you  how  little  justice  Dryden  has 
done  him,  I  will  first  read  you  a  few  lines  from  his 
version  of  "The  Knight's  Tale,"  and  then  the  cor- 
responding ones  of  the  original.  It  is  the  death-scene 
of  Arcite. 

"  Conscience  (that  of  all  physic  vrorks  the  last) 
Caused  him  to  send  for  Emily  in  haste ; 
"With  her,  at  his  desire,  came  Palamon. 
Then,  on  his  pillow  raised,  he  thus  begun : 
*  No  language  can  express  the  smallest  part 
Of  what  I  feel  and  suffer  in  my  heart 
For  you,  whom  best  I  love  and  honor  most. 
But  to  your  service  I  bequeath  my  ghost ; 
Which,  from  this  mortal  body  when  untied, 
Unseen,  unheard,  shall  hover  at  your  side, 
Nor  fright  you  waking,  nor  your  sleep  offend, 
But  wait,  officious,  and  your  steps  attend. 
IIuw  I  have  loved  /     Excuse  my  faltering  tongue; 
My  spirit's  feeble  and  my  pains  are  strong  ; 
This  I  may  say  :  I  only  grieve  to  die, 
Because  I  lose  my  channing  Emily.'  " 

JOHN. 

I  am  quite  losing  my  patience.  The  sentiment  of 
Giles  Scroggins,  and  the  verse  of  Blackmore !  Surely, 
nothing  but  the  meanest  servility  to  his  original  could 
excuse  such  slovenly  workmanship  as  this. 

PHILIP. 

There  is  worse  to  come.  Of  its  fidelity  as  a  transla- 
tion you  can  judge  for  yourself,  when  you  hear  Chaucer. 

" '  To  die  when  Heaven  had  put  you  in  my  power, 
Fate  could  not  choose  a  more  malicious  hour! 
What  greater  curse  could  envious  Fortune  give 
Than  just  to  die  when  I  began  to  live? 


16  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

Vain  men,  how  vanishing  a  bliss  we  crave  ! 
Now  warm  in  love,  now  withering  in  the  grave! 
Never,  0,  never  more  to  see  the  sun  ! 
Still  dark  in  a  damp  vatdf,  and  still  alone  ! 
*  This  fate  is  common.' " 

I  wish  you  especially  to  bear  in  raiud  the  Hues  I 
have  emphasized.  Notice,  too,  how  the  rhyme  is 
impertinently  forced  upon  the  attention  throughout. 
AVe  can  hardly  help  wondering  if  a  nuncupatory  testa- 
ment were  ever  spoken  in  verse  before.  There  is  none 
of  this  French  lustre  in  Chaucer. 

"  Arcite  must  die  ; 
For  which  lie  sendeth  after  Emily, 
And  Palaraon,  that  was  his  cousin  dear ; 
Then  spake  lie  thus,  as  ye  shall  after  hear: 
'  Ne'er  may  the  wofnl  spirit  in  my  heart 
JDeclare  one  point  of  all  my  sorrow's  smart 
To  you,  my  lady,  that  I  love  the  most ; 
But  I  bequeath  the  service  of  my  ghost 
To  you  aboven  any  cre-a-ture, 
Since  that  my  life  may  now  no  longer  dure. 
Alas,  the  woe  !   alas,  the  pains  so  strong. 
That  I  for  you  have  sutlered, — and  so  long! 
Alas,  the  death  !   alas,  mine  Emily  ! 
Alas,  the  parting  of  our  company  ! 
Alas,  my  heart's  true  queen,  alas,  my  wife ! 
^    ;My  heart's  dear  lady,  ender  of  my  life ! 

What  is  this  world  ?     "What  asketh  man  to  have? 

Now  with  his  love, — now  in  liis  cold,  cold  grave, 

Alone,  Avithouten  any  company  ! 

Farewell,  my  sweet !    farewell,  mine  Emily  ! 

And  softly  take  me  in  your  armes  twey  (two  arms), 

For  love  of  God,  and  hearken  what  I  say.'  " 

JOHN. 

Perfect !     I  would  not  have  a  word  changed,  except 


CHAUCER.  17 

the  second  "cokl"  before  "grave."  It  takes  away 
from  the  simplicity,  and  injures  the  effect  accordingly. 
In  the  lines  just  before  that,  I  could  fancy  that  1  heard 
the  dying  man  gasp  for  breath.  After  hearing  this, 
Drydeu's  exclamation-marks  savor  of  the  play-bills, 
where  one  sees  them  drawn  up  in  })latoons,  as  a  body- 
guard to  the  name  of  an  indilferent  player, — their 
number  being  increased  in  proportion  as  the  attraction 
diminishes.     And  in  that  seemingly  redundant  line, 

"  Alone,  withouten  any  company," 

how  does  the  repetition  and  amplificatio]i  give  force  and 
bitterness  to  the  thought,  as  if  Arcite  must  need  dwell 
on  his  expected  loneliness,  in  order  to  feel  it  fully! 
There  is  nothing  here  about  "  charming  Emily,"  "  en- 
vious Fortune," — no  bandying  of  compliments,  Death 
shows  to  Arcite,  as  he  does  mostly  to  those  who  are  cut 
off  suddenly  in  the  May-time  and  blossom  of  the  senses, 
as  a  bleak,  bony  skeleton,  and  nothing  more,  Dryden, 
I  remember,  in  his  "  Art  of  Poetry,"  gays, 

"  Chaucer  alone,  fixed  on  this  solid  base, 
In  liis  old  style  conserves  a  modern  grace  ; 
Too  liappy,  if  the  freedom  of  his  rhymes 
OflTended  not  the  method  of  our  times." 

But  if  what  you  have  read  (unless  you  have  softened 
it  greatly)  be  a  specimen  of  his  rudeness,  save  us  from 
such  "  method"  as  that  of  Dryden  ! 

PHILIP. 

I  hardly  changed  a  syllable.  The  Avord  to  which 
you  objected,  as  redundant,  was  an  addition  of  my  own 

2 


18  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

to  eke  out  the  measure;  "colde"  being  pronounced  as 
two  syllables  in  Chaucer's  time.  The  language  of  the 
heart  never  grows  obsolete  or  antiquated,  but  falls  as 
musically  from  the  tongue  now  as  when  it  was  first 
uttered.  Such  lustiness  and  health  of  thought  and 
expression  seldom  fail  of  leaving  issue  behind  them. 
One  may  trace  a  family  likeness  to  these  in  many  of 
Spenser's  lines,  and  I  please  myself  sometimes  with 
imagining  pencil-marks  of  Shakespeare's  against  some 
of  my  favorite  })assagcs  in  Chaucer.  At  least,  the 
relationship  may  be  traced  through  Spenser,  who  calls 
Chaucer  his  master,  and  to  whom  Shakespeare  pays 
nearly  as  high  a  compliment. 

JOHN. 

I  sii])pose  you  refer  to  the  sonnet,  usually  printed 
with  his,  but  now  generally  ascribed  to  some  one  else. 

PHILIP. 

To  Barnaby  Barnes ;  but  hardly,  I  would  fain  be- 
lieve, on  sound  authoi-ity.  At  any  rate,  there  is  enough 
in  Shakespeare's  earlier  poems  to  prove  that  he  admired 
Spenser  fully  to  the  measure  of  that  sonnet.  I  know 
nothing  more  full  of  delight  and  encouragement  than 
to  ti'ace  the  influence  of  one  great  spirit  upon  another. 
It  adds  to  the  dignity  of  both,  and  gives  our  love  for 
them  a  nobler  argument.  How  must  Chaucer  have 
become,  for  a  moment,  sweetly  conscious  of  his  laurel, 
even  in  paradise,  at  hearing  his  name  spoken  reverently 
by  Spenser  and  Milton  and  WordsM'orth  ! 


CHA  UCER.  19 

JOHN. 

I  doubt  if  he  were  out  of  purgatory  by  the  time 
Spenser  wrote.  You  would  panh)n  anything  to  a  poet 
wliom  you  love,  and  imagine  him  in  paradise  forthwith, 
when  very  likely  his  teeth  are  chattering  on  this  side 
of  the  door.     Chaucer  had  his  sins  to  answer  for. 

PHILIP. 

Nay,  I  fancy  that,  if  the  priests,  whose  cassocks  he 
stripped  from  their  shoulders,  had  the  arrangement  of 
the  afterpiece,  we  nmst  look  for  him  where  his  bays  will 
hardly  keep  him  cool.  It  is  true  that  I  would  pardon 
more  to  a  poet,  because  he  needs  pardon  the  most.  If 
he  be  not  excellent,  he  needs  it,  because  he  has  keener 
perceptions  of  goodness ;  and  if  he  be  sinful,  he  needs 
it,  because  his  temptation  to  evil  is  in  like  manner 
stronger,  and  his  own  imagination  sometimes  unlocks  a 
postern  for  vice  to  enter  at.  God  does  not  weigh  crim- 
inality in  our  scales.  We  have  one  absolute  standard, 
with  the  seal  of  authority  upon  it;  and  with  us  an 
ounce  is  an  ounce,  and  a  pound  a  pound.  If  we  have 
winked  while  Bigotry  and  Superstition  were  tampering 
with  the  weights,  adding  a  little  to  one,  and  stealing  as 
much  from  another,  to  suit  their  convenience,  it  is  our 
own  fault.  But  God's  measure  is  the  heart  of  the 
offender, — a  balance  which  varies  with  every  one  of  us, 
a  balance  so  delicate  that  a  tear  cast  in  the  other  side 
may  make  the  weight  of  error  kick  the  beam.  The 
recording  ano;el  had  but  little  trouble  in  footing 
Chaucer's  account.  The  uncleanuess  of  his  age  has  left^  ^ 
a  smutch  here  and  there  upon  his  poems ;  but  it  is  only 
in  the  miirgin,  and  may  be  torn  off  without  injury  to 


20  "^    FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

the  text.  His  love  of  beauty  was  too  sincere  not  to 
liave  made  him  truly  pious.  It  was  not  a  holyday 
dress,  folded  up  aud  lavendered  for  one  day  in  the 
week ;  but  his  singiug-robe,  which  he  wore  into  the  by- 
lanes  aud  hovels  of  every-day  life. 

JOHN. 

After  all,  your  Chaucer  was  a  satirist,  and  you 
should,  in  justice,  test  him  with  the  same  acid  which 
you  aj)plied  so  remorselessly  to  Pope. 

PHILIP. 

Chaucer's  satire  is  of  quite  another  complexion.  A 
hearty  laugh  and  a  thrust  in  the  ribs  are  his  weapons. 
He  makes  fun  of  you  to  your  face,  and,  even  if  you 
wince  a  little,  you  cannot  help  joining  in  his  mirth. 
He  does  not  hate  a  vice  because  he  has  a  spite  against 
the  man  who  is  guilty  of  it.  He  does  not  cry,  "  A  rat 
i'  the  arras!"  and  run  his  sword  througli  a  defenceless 
old  man  behind  it.  But  it  is  not  for  his  humor,  nor, 
indeed,  for  any  one  quality,  that  our  old  Chaucer  is 
dear  and  sacred  to  me.  I  love  to  call' him  old  Chaucer. 
The  farther  I  can  throw  him  back  into  the  past,  the 
dearer  he  grows ;  so  sweet  is  it  to  mark  how  his  plain- 
ness and  sincerity  outlive'  all  changes  of  the  outward 
M'orld.  Antiquity  has  always  sometliing  reverend  in 
it.  Even  its  most  material  and  perishable  form,  which 
we  see  in  pyramids,  cairns,  and  the  like,  is  brooded  over 
by  a  mysterious  presence  which  strangely  awes  us. 
Whatever  has  been  hallowed  by  the  love  and  pity,  by 
the  smiles  and  tears  of  men,  becomes  something  more 
to  us  than  tlie  moss-covered  epitaph  of  a  buried  age. 


CHA  UCER.  21 

There  was  a  meaning  in  the  hieroglyphics,  wliich 
Champollion  could  not  make  ])lainer.  It  is  only  from 
association  with  Man  that  anything  seems  old.  The 
quarries  of  the  Nile  may  he  coeval  with  the  plant  ^.>^6-<*/--^ 
itself,  yet  it  is  only  the  still  fresh  dints  of  the  Coptic 
chisel  that  gift  them  with  the  spell  of  ancieutncss.  Let 
but  the  skeleton  of  a  man  be  found  among  the  remains 
of  those  extinct  antediluvian  monsters,  and  straightway 
that  which  now  claimed  our  homage  as  a  triumph  of 
comparative  anatomy  shall  become  full  of  awe  and 
mystery,  and  dim  with  the  gray  dawnlight  of  time. 
Once,  from  those  shapeless  holes,  a  human  soul  looked 
forth  upon  its  huge  empire  of  past  and  future.  Once, 
beneath  those  crumbling  ribs,  beat  a  human  heart,  that 
seeming  narrow  isthmus  between  time  and  eternity, 
wherein  there  was  yet  room  for  hope  and  fear,  and  love 
and  sorrow,  to  dwell,  with  all  their  wondrous  glooms 
and  splendors.  Before,  we  could  have  gone  no  farther 
back  than  Cuvier.  Those  mighty  bones  of  ichthyosauri 
and  plesiosauri  seemed  rather  a  record  of  his  energy  and 
patience,  than  of  a  living  epoch  in  earth's  history. 
Now,  how  modern  and  of  to-day  seem  Memnon  and 
Elephanta !  If  there  be  a  venerableness  in  any  out- 
ward symbols,  in  which  rude  and  dumb  fashion  the 
soul  of  man  fii-st  strove  to  utter  itself,  how  much  more 
is  there  in  the  clearer  and  more  inspired  sentences  of 
ancient  lawgivers  and  poets  ! 

JOHX. 

You  have  contrived  very  adroitly  to  get  the  Deluge 
between  us.  I  shall  not  attempt  the  perilous  naviga- 
tion to  your  side,  and  can  only  wish  you  a  safe  return 


22  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

to  mine.  Caraoens  swam  ashore  from  a  shipwreck, 
with  the  Lusiad  in  his  teeth ;  and  I  hope  you  will  do 
as  much  for  Chaucer.     I  long  to  hear  more  of  him. 

PHILIP. 

It  would  be  easier  for  me  to  emulate  Waterton's  ride 
on  the  alligator's  back,  and  make  an  extempore  steed 
of  the  most  tractable-looking  ichthyosaurus  I  can  lay 
hands  on.  However,  here  I  am  safely  back  again. 
But  before  I  read  you  anything  else  from  Chaucer,  I 
must  please  myself  by  praising  him  a  little  more.  His 
simplicity  often  reminds  me  of  Homer;  but,  except  in 
the  single  quality  of  invention,  I  prefer  him  to  the 
Ionian.  Yet  we  must  remember  that  he  shares  this 
deficiency  with  Shakespeare,  who  scarcely  ever  scrupled 
to  ruu  in  debt  for  his  plots. 

JOHN. 

I  cannot  allow  any  poverty  in  Shakespeare.  Writing, 
as  he  did,  with  hardly  any  aim  beyond  an  immediate 
effect  upon  the  stage,  he  instinctively  felt  how  much 
easier  it  was  to .  interest  his  audience  in  real  charac- 
ters, and  in  stories  with  which  they  were  familiar. 
Invent  the  most  ingenious  plots  for  plays  and  panto- 
mimes, and  give  all  the  advantage  of  more  exuberant 
decoration,  yet  the  old  stories  of  the  Forty  Thieves  and 
Jack  the  Giant-killer  will  Avin  the  unanimous  verdict 
of  the  nursery. 

PHILIP. 

I  do  not  believe  that  Shakespeare  never  thought  of 
posterity,  nor  that  any  man  was  ever  endowed  with 
marvellous  powers  without  being  conscious  of  it,  and 


CHA  UC.ER.  23 

desiring  to  make  them  felt.  Xo  man  of  genius  was 
ever  so  fully  appreciated  by  contemporaries  as  to  make 
liim  forget  the  future.  A  poet  must  needs  be  before 
his  own  age,  to  be  even  with  posterity.  There  will 
always  be  an  uncomfortable  simper  and  constraint 
about  a  man  who  is  aware  of  the  presence  of  a  living 
audience ;  but  when  he  appeals  to  the  future,  he  selects 
his  hearers  wholly  from  the  noble  and  magnanimous, 
and  there  is  a  grandeur  in  the  eyes  that  look  upon 
him,  which  renders  anything  but  sincerity  and  great- 
mindeduess  impossible.  There  is  ample  proof  in 
Shakespeare's  sonnets,  the  most  private  and  personal 
record  of  himself  which  he  has  left  us,  and  in  the  care 
with  w^hich  he  corrected  his  plays,  that  he  wrote  more 
for  readers  than  for  play-goers. 

But  we  must  come  back  to  Chaucer.  There  is  in 
him  the  exuberant  freshness  and  greetmess  of  spring. 
Everything  he  touches  leaps  into  full  blossom.  His 
gladness  and  humor  and  pathos  are  irrepressible  as  a 
fountain.  Dam  them  with  a  prosaic  subject,  and  they 
overleap  it  in  a  sparkling  cascade  that  turns  even  the 
hindrance  to  a  beauty.  Choke  them  with  a  tedious 
theological  disquisition,  and  they  bubble  up  forthwith, 
all  around  it,  with  a  delighted  gurgle.  There  is  no 
cabalistic  Undine-stone  or  seal-of-Solomon  that  can 
shut  them  up  for  ever.  {Reading  him  is  like  brushing 
through  the  dewy  grass  at  sunrise.  Everything  is  new 
and  sparkling  and  fragrant.  He  is  of  kin  to  Belpha?be, 
whose 

"  Birth  was  of  the  womb  of  morning  dew, 
And  her  conception  of  the  joyous  prime." 


24  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

[  I  speak  now  of  what  was  truly  Chaucer.  I  strip 
away  from  him  all  that  belonged  to  the  time  in  which 
he  lived,  and  judge  him  only  by  what  belongs  equally 
to  all  times.  For  it  is  only  in  as  far  as  a  poet  advances 
into  the  universal,  that  he  approaches  immortality. 
There  is  no  nebulosity  of  sentiment  about  him,  no 
insipid  vagueness  in  his  sympathies.  His  first  merit, 
the  chief  one  in  all  art,  is  sincerity,  j  He  does  not 
strive  to  body  forth  something  which  shall  have  a 
meaning;  but,  having  a  clear  meaning  in  his  heart,  he 
gives  it  as  clear  a  shape.  Sir  Philip  Sydney  was  of  his 
mind  when  he  bade  poets  look  into  their  own  hearts  and 
write.  He  is  the  most  unconventional  of  poets,  and  the 
frankest.  If  his  story  be  dull,  he  rids  his  hearers  of 
all  uncomfortable  qualms  by  being  himself  the  first  to 
yawn.  _He  would  have  fared  but  ill  in  our  day,  when 
the  naked  feelings  are  made  liable  to  the  penalties  of 
an  act  for  the  punishment  of  indecent  exposure.  .Very 
little  care  had  he  for  the  mere  decencies  of  life.  HVere 
he  alive  now,  I  can  conceive  him  sending  a  shudder 
through  St.  James's  Coffee-house,  by  thrusting  his  knife 
into  his  mouth  ;  or  making  all  Regent  Street  shriek  for 
hartshorn,  by  giving  a  cab-driver  as  good  as  he  sent,  in 
a  style  that  would  have  pleased  old  Burton.  The 
highest  merit  of  a  poem  is,-  that  it  reflects  alike  the 
subject  and  the  poet.  It  should  be  neither  ob- 
jective nor  subjective  exclusively.  Reason  should 
stand  at  the  helm,  though  the  wayward  breezes  of 
feeling  must  puif  the  sails.  Nature  has  hinted  at  this 
by  setting  the  eyes  higher  than  the  heart.  Chaucer's 
poems  can  claim  more  of  the  former  than  of  the  latter 
of  these  excellencies.     Observation  of  outward  nature 


CHA  UCER.  25 

and  life  is  more  apparent  in  tlieni  tlian  a  deep  inward 
experience,  and  it  is  the  observation  of  a  ehecrful,  un- 
weai'-ied  spirit.  His  innocent  self-forgetfulness  gives  , 
us  the  truest  glimpses  into  his  own  nature,  and,  at  the  / 
same  time,  makes  his  pictures  of  outward  objects  won-/ 
derfully  clear  and  vivid.  Though  many  of  his  poems 
are  written  in  the  first  person,  yet  there  is  not  a  shade 
of  egoism  in  them.  It  is  but  the  simple  art  of  the 
story-teller,  to  give  more  reality  to  what  he  tells. 

JOHN. 

Yes,  it  Avas  not  till  our  own  day  that  the  poets  dis- 
covered what  mystical  significance  had  been  lying  dor- 
mant for  ages  in  a  capital  I.  It  seems  strange  that  a 
letter  of  such  powerful  bewitchment  had  not  made  part 
of  the  juggling  wares  of  the  Cabalists  and  Tlieurgists. 
Yet  we  find  no  mention  of  it  in  Rabbi  Akiba  or  Cor- 
nelius Agrippa.  Byron  wrought  miracles  with  it.  I 
fear  that  the  noble  Stylites  of  modern  song,  wlio,  from 
his  lonely  pillar  of  self,  drew  crowds  of  admiring  vota- 
ries to  listen  to  the  groans  of  his  self-inflicted  misery, 
would  have  l)een  left  only  to  feel  the  cold  and  hunger 
of  his  shelterless  pinnacle  in  Chaucer's  simpler  day. 

PtiiLiP. 
Yes,  Byron  always  reminds  me  of  that  criminal 
who  was  shut  in  a  dungeon,  the  walls  of  which  grew 
every  day  narrov/er  and  narrower,  till  they  crushed 
him  at  last.  His  selfishness  walled  him  in,  from  the 
first ;  so  that  he  was  never  open  to  tlie  sweet  influences 
of  nature,  and  those  sweeter  ones  which  the  true  heart 
finds  in  life.     The  sides  of  his  jail  were  semi-transpar- 


26  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

ent,  giviug  him  a  muddy  view  of  things  immediately 
about  him ;  but  selfishness  always  builds  a  thick  roof 
overhead,  to  cut  off  the  heavenward  gaze  of  the  spirit. 
And  how  did  it  press  the  very  life  out  of  him,  in  the 
end ! 

JOHN. 

Byron's  spirit  was  more  halt  than  his  body.  It  had 
been  well  for  him  had  he  been  as  ashamed,  or  at  least  as 
conscious,  of  one  as  of  the  other.  He  should  have  been 
banished,  like  Piiiloctetes,  to  some  Isle  of  Lemnos,  where 
his  lameness  should  not  have  been  offensive  and  con- 
tagious. As  it  was,  the  world  fell  in  love  with  the 
defect.  Some  malicious  Puck  had  dropped  the  juice 
of  love-in-idleness  upon  its  eyes,  and  limping  came 
quite  into  fashion.  We  have  never  yet  had  a  true 
likeness  of  Byron.  Leigh  Hunt's,  I  think,  is  more 
faithful  than  Moore's.  Moore  never  forget  that  his 
friend  was  a  lord,  and  seemed  to  feel  that  he  was  pay- 
ing himself  a  side-compliment  in  writing  a  life  of  him. 
I  always  imagine  Moore's  portrait  of  Byron  with  an 
"  I  am,  my  dear  Moore,  yours  &c.,"  written  under  it, 
as  a  specimen  of  his  autography.  But  to  our  poet. 
You  have  given  ine  a  touch  of  his  pathos ;  let  me  hear 
some  of  the  humor  which  you  have  commended  so 
higlily. 

PHILIP. 

Praise  beforehand  deadens  the  flavor  of  the  wine ;  so 
that,  if  you  are  disappointed,  the  blame  must  be  laid 
upon  me.  I  will  read  you  a  few  passages  from  his 
"  Nun's  Priest's  Tale."  It  has  been  modernized  by 
Dryden,  under  the  title  of  "  The  Cook  and  the  Fox;" 


CHA  UCER.  27 

but  he  has  lost  much  of  ihc  raciness  of  ihc  original.  I 
have  chosen  this  tale,  because  it  will,  at  the  same  time, 
give  you  an  idea  of  his  minute  observation  of  nature. 
I  shall  modernize  it  as  I  read,  preserving  as  nmch  as 
possible  the  language,  and,  above  all,  the  spirit  of  the 
original.  But  you  must  never  forget  how  much  our 
Chaucer  loses  by  the  process.  The  story  begins  with  a 
description  of  the  poor  widow  who  owns  the  hero  of 
the  story,  Sir  Chaunticlei'e.  Then  we  have  a  glimpse 
of  the  hero  himself.     The  widow  has 

"  A  yard  enclosed  all  about 
With  sticks,  and  also  a  dry  ditch  witliout, 
In  which  she  had  a  cock  higlit  Chaunticlere ; 
In  all  the  land  for  voice  was  not  his  peer; 
Not  merrier  notes  the  merry  organ  plays 
Within  the  churches  upon  holydays ; 
And  surer  was  his  crowing  in  his  lodge 
Than  is  a  clock,  or  abbey  horologe : 
He  knew  by  nature  every  step  to  trace 
Of  the  equinoctial  in  his  native  place, 
And  when,  fifteen  degrees  it  had  ascended, 
Then  crew  he  so  as  might  not  be  amended. 
His  comb  was  redder  than  the  fine  coral, 
Embattled  as  it  were  a  castle-wall ; 
His  bill  was  black,  and  like  the  jet  it  shone ; 
Like  azure  were  his  legs  and  toes  each  one ; 
His  nails  were  white  as  lilies  in  the  grass, 
And  like  the  burned  gold  his  color  was." 

JOHN. 
What  gusto !  If  he  had  been  painting  Arthur  or 
Charlemagne,  he  would  not  have  selected  his  colors 
with  more  care.  AVithout  pulling  out  a  feather  from 
his  hero's  cockhood,  he  contrives  to  give  him  a  human 
interest.     How  admirable  is  the  little  humorous  thrur-t 


28  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

at  the  astronomers,  too,  in  restricting  Sir  Chauuticlere's 
knowledge  of  the  heavenly  motions  to  his  own  village ! 

PHILIP. 

Yes,  Chaucer  has  the  true  poet's  heart.  One  thing 
is  as  precious  to  him  ia  point  of  beauty  as  another. 
He  would  have  described  his  lady's  cheek  by  the  same 
flower  to  which  he  has  here  likened  the  nails  of  Chaun- 
ticlere.     To  go  on  with  our  story. 

"This  gentle  cock  had  in  his  governance 
Seven  wifely  hens  to  do  him  all  pleasaunce, 
Of  whom  the  fiiirest-colored  in  the  throat 
Was  known  as  the  fair  damsel  Partelote; 
Courteous  she  was,  discreet  and  debonair, 
Companionable,  and  bore  herself  so  fair, 
Sithence  the  hour  she  was  a  seven-night  old, 
Tliat  truly  she  the  royal  heart  did  hold 
Of  Chaunticlere  bound  fast  in  every  limb : 
He  loved  her  so,  that  it  was  well  with  him : 
But  such  a  joy  it  was  to  hear  them  sing 
"When  that  the  bright  sun  in  the  east  'gan  spring. 
In  sweet  accord !" 

Chaunticlere,  one  morning,  awakens  his  fair  wife 
Partelote  by  a  dreadful  groaning;  and,  on  her  asking 
the  cause,  informs  her  that  it  must  have  been  the  eifect 
of  a  bad  dream  he  had  been  haimted  by. 

" '  I  dreamed,  that,  as  I  roamed  up  and  down, 
Within  our  yard,  I  there  beheld  a  beast, 
Like  to  a  hound,  that  would  have  made  arrest 
Upon  my  body,  and  have  had  me  dead. 
His  color  'twixt  a  yellow  was  and  redy 
And  tipped  were  his  tail  and  both  his  cars 
With  black,  unlike  the  remnant  of  his  hairs. 
His  snout  was  small,  and  glowing  were  his  eyes: 
Still,  for  his  look,  the  heart  within  me  dies.' " 


CHAUCER.     .  29 

Partelote  treats  his  fears  with  scorn.  She  asks,  in- 
dignautly, 

"  '  IIow  durst  you  now  for  shame  say  to  your  love 
Tliat  anything  could  make  you  feel  afeard  ? 
Have  you  no  manly  heart,  yet  have  a  beard  ?  '  " 

Slie  then  gives  him  a  lecture  on  the  physiological 
causes  of  dreams,  hints  at  a  superfluity  of  bile,  and 
recommends  some  simple  remedy  which  her  own  house- 
wifely skill  can  concoct  from  herbs  that  grow  within 
the  limits  of  his  own  manor.  She  also  quotes  Cato's 
opinion  of  the  small  faith  to  be  put  in  dreams.  Her 
lord,  who  does  not  seem  superior  to  the  common  preju- 
dice against  having  his  wife  make  too  liberal  a  display 
of  her  learning,  replies  by  overwhelming  her  with  an 
avalanche  of  weighty  authorities,  each  one  of  which, 
he  tells  her,  is  worth  more  than  ever  Cato  was.  He 
concludes  with  a  contemptuous  defiance  of  all  manner 
of  doses,  softening  it  toward  his  lady  by  an  adroit 
compliment. 

"  '  But  let  us  speak  of  mirth,  and  stint  of  this : 
Dame  Partelote,  as  I  have  liope  of  bliss, 
Of  one  thing  God  hath  sent  me  largest  grace ; 
For,  when  I  see  the  beauty  of  your  face, 
You  are  so  scarlet  red  about  your  eyes, 
That,  when  I  look  on  you,  my  terror  dies  ; 
For  just  so  sure  as  in  principio 
Midler  est  hominis  covfusio 
(Madam,  the  meaning  of  this  Latin  is, 
AVoman  is  man's  chief  joy  and  sovereign  bliss), 
"Whene'er  t  feel  at  night  your  downy  side, 
I  am  so  full  of  solace  and  of  pride. 
That  T  defy  the  threatenings  of  my  dream.' 
And,  with  that  word,  he  flew  down  from  the  beam, — 


30  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

For  it  was  day, — and  eke  his  spouses  all ; 
And  with  a  chuck  he  'gan  them  for  to  call, 
For  he  had  found  a  corn  lay  in  the  yard : 
Royal  he  was,  and  felt  no  more  afeard ; 
He  looketh  as  a  lion  eyes  his  foes, 
And  roameth  up  and  down  upon  his  toes ; 
Scarcely  he  deigneth  set  his  feet  to  ground ; 
He  chucketh  when  a  kernel  he  hath  found, 
And  all  liis  wives  run  to  him  at  his  call." 

JOHN. 

AVhat  an  admirable  barn-yard  picture !  The  very- 
chanticleer  of  our  childhood,  whose  parallel  Bucks 
county  and  Dorking  have  striven  in  vain  to  satisfy  our 
maturer  vision  with !  A  chanticleer  Avhose  memory 
writes  Ichabod  upon  the  most  populous  and  palatial 
fowl-houses  of  manhood  !  Chaucer's  Pegasus  ambles 
along  aseasily,  and  crops  the  grass  and  daisies  of  the 
roadside  as  contentedly,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  his  wings. 

PHILIP. 

Yes,  the  work  in  hand  is,  for  the  time,  noblest  in  the 
estimation  of  our  poet.  His  eye  never  looks  beyond 
it,  or  cheats  it  of  its  due  regard  by  pining  for 
something;  fairer  and  more  worthy.  The  rovaltv  is 
where  he  is,  whether  in  hovel  or  palace.  Nothing  that 
God  has  not  thought  it  beneath  him  to  make  does  he 
deem  it  beneath  him  to  study  and  prove  worthy  of  all 
admiration.     Wordsworth  is  like  him  iu  this. 

JOHN. 

True,  but  in  Wordsworth  the  faculty  was  a  conscious 
acquisition,  while  iu  Chaucer  it  was  au  inborn  gift. 

/ 


CHA  UCER.  31 

Wordsworth  attained  to  it  analytically,  and  so  became 
a  philosopher.     Chaucer  is  always  a  poet. 

PHILIP. 

The  artificial  style  of  writing,  whicli  tyrannized  when 
Wordsworth  first  became  sensible  of  his  own  powers,  so 
disgusted  him  as  to  warp  his  inborn  poetical  faith  into 
a  fanaticism.  That  which  should  have  retained  the 
flexible  sensibility  of  a  feeling  became  stiffened  into  a 
theory.  He  has  beheld  nature  through  a  loophole, 
whence  he  could  see  but  on  one  side  of  him,  though 
there  the  view  was  broad  and  majestic.  His  eye 
has  glorified  whatever  it  looked  upon,  and  the  clod 
and  the  bramble  have  shared  equally  in  transfiguration 
with  the  mountain  and  the  forest.  The  cloud  which 
tiie  sun's  alchemy  transmutes  to  gold  is,  perhaps,  not 
more  grateful  for  that  light  than  the  smallest  grass- 
blade  which  he  shines  upon  ;  but  the  eye  reaps  a  richer 
harvest  of  cousolement  from  it.  I  cannot  look  the  gift- 
horse  in  the  mouth,  especially  when  he  is  the  true  steed 
of  the  Muses,  but  I  should  have  been  more  grateful  to 
Wordsworth  for  a  larger  bunch  of  lilies  and  less  darnel. 
Yet  his  reducing  the  movements  of  his  poetical  nature 
to  a  principle,  if  it  has  straitened  his  revenues  from 
some  sources,  has  not  been  without  its  rewards  also.  It 
gave  surety  and  precision  to  his  eye,  so  that  it  looked  at 
once  through  all  outward  wrappages  to  the  very  life 
and  naked  reality  of  things,  and  he  has  added  more  to 
our  household  words  than  any  other  poet  since  Shake- 
speare. Most  of  his  work  is  solid,  of  the  true  Cyclopean 
build.  There  is  no  stucco  about  it,  and  it  will  bear  the 
rudest  weather  of  time.     Of  his  defects 


32  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

"  Non  ragioniam  di  lor,  ma  gnarda  e  passa." 

Chaucer  reminds  me  oftenest  of  Crabbe,  in  the 
unstudied  plainness  of  his  sentiment,  and  the  minute- 
ness of  his  descriptions.  But,  in  Crabbe's  poetry, 
Tyburn-tree  is  seen  looming  up  in  the  distance,  and 
the  bell  of  the  parish  workhouse  is  heard  jangling.  It 
had  been  better  for  Crabbe  if  he  had  studied  Chaucer 
more  and  Pope  less.  The  frigid  artificiality  of  his 
verse  contrasts  almost  ludicrously  with  the  rudeness  of 
his  theme.  It  is  Captain  Kidd  in  a  starched  cambric 
neckcloth  and  white  gloves.  When  Chaucer  describes 
his  Shipman,  we  seem  to  smell  tar. 

*'  There  was  also  a  shipman  from  far  west, 
For  aught,  I  know,  m  Dartmouth  he  abode ; 
—  Well  as  he  could  upon  a  hack  he  rode. 
All  in  a  shirt  of  tow-cloth  to  the  knee ; 
A  dagger  hanging  by  lace  had  he. 
About  his  neck,  under  his  arm  adown ; 
The  summer's  heat  had  made  his  hue  all  brown. 
He  was  a  right  good  fellow  certainly. 
And  many  a  cargo  of  good  wine  had  he 
Run  from  Bordeaux  while  the  tidewaiter  slept ; 
Of  a  nice  conscience  no  great  care  he  kept, 
If  that  he  fought  and  had  the  upperhand, 
By  water  he  sent  them  home  to  every  land ; 
But  in  his  craft  to  reckon  well  the  tides, 
Tiie  deep  sea  currents,  and  the  shoals  besides, 
The  sun's  height  and  the  moon's,  and  pilotage, — 
There  was  none  such  from  Hull  unto  Carthage ; 
Hardy  he  was  and  wise,  I  undertake; 
His  beard  has  felt  full  many  a  tenipest's  shake ; 
He  knew  well  all  the  havens  as  they  were 
From  Gothland  to  the  Cape  de  Finisterre, 
And  every  creek  in  Brittany  and  Spain ; 
His  trusty  bark  was  named  the  Magdelaine." 

/ 


CIIA  UCER.  33 

JOIIX. 

The  "savage  Rosa"  never  dashed  tlie  lights  and 
sliades  upon  one  of  his  bandits  with  more  hold  and 
picturesque  effect.  How  tliat  storm-grizzled  beard 
stands  out  froui  the  canvass!  The  effect  is  so  real 
that  it  seems  as  if  the  brown  old  sea-king  had  sat  for 
his  portrait,  and  that  every  stroke  of  the  brush  had 
been  laid  on  witiiin  reach  of  the  dagger  hanging  at  his 
side.  Witness  the  amiable  tints  thrown  in  here  and 
there,  to  palliate  a  grim  wrinkle  or  a  shaggy  eyebrow. 
The  poet  takes  care  to  tell  us  that 

"  He  was  a  right  good  f^jUow  certainly," 

lest  his  sitter  take  umbrage  at  the  recital  of  his  smuer- 
gling  exploits  in  the  next  verse.  And  then  with  what 
a  rough  kind  of  humor  he  lets  us  into  the  secret  of  his 
murderous  propensities,  by  hinting  that  he  gave  a  passage 
home  by  water  to  those  of  whom  he  got  the  upperhand  ! 
In  spite  of  the  would-be  good-humored  leer,  the  cut- 
throat look  shows  through.  It  may  be  very  pleasant 
riding  M^ith  him  as  far  as  Canterbury,  and  we  might 
even  laugh  at  his  clumsiness  in  the  saddle,  but  we  feel 
all  the  while  that  we  had  rather  not  be  overhauled  by 
him  upon  the  high  seas.  His  short  and  easy  method 
of  sending  acquaintances  thus  casually  made  to  their 
respective  homes,  l)y  water,  we  should  not  be  inclined 
to  admire  so  much  as  he  himself  would  ;  especially  if, 
as  a  preliminary  step,  he  should  attempt  to  add  to  the 
convenience  of  our  respiratory  organs  with  that  ugly 
dagger  of  his,  by  opening  a  larger  aperture  somewhere 
nearer  to  the  lungs.    We  should  be  inclined  to  distrust 

3 


34  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

those  extraordinary  powers  of  natation  for  which  he 
would  give  us  credit.  Even  Lord  Byron,  I  imagine, 
would  dislike  to  mount  that  steed  that  "  knew  its  rider" 
so  well,  or  even  to  "  lay  his  hand  upon  its  mane,"  if 
our  friend,  the  Shipman,  held  the  stirrup. 

PHILIP. 

The  whole  prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales  is 
equally  admirable,  but  there  is  not  time  for  me  to  read 
the  whole.  You  must  do  that  for  yourself.  I  only 
give  you  a  bunch  or  two  of  grapes.  To  enjoy  the  fruit 
in  its  perfection,  you  must  go  into  the  vineyard  yourself, 
and  pluck  it  with  the  bloom  on,  before  the  flavor  of 
sunshine  has  yet  faded  out  of  it ;  enjoying  the  play  of 
light  upon  the  leaves  also,  and  the  apt  disposition  of  the 
clusters,  each  lending  a  grace  to  the  other. 

JOHN. 

Your  metaphor  pleases  me.  I  like  the  grapes  better 
than  the  wine  which  is  pressed  out  of  them,  and  they 
seem  to  be  a  fitting  emblem  of  Chaucer's  natural  inno- 
cence. Elizabeth  Barrett,  a  woman  whose  genius  I 
admire,  says  very  beautifully  of  Chaucer, 

"  Old  Chaucer,  with  his  infantine, 
Familiar  clasp  of  things  divine, — 
That  stain  upon  his  lips  is  wine." 

I  had  rather  think  it  pure  grape-juico.  The  first  two 
lines  take  hold  of  my  heart  so  that  I  believe  them  intu- 
itively, and  doubt  not  but  my  larger  acquaintance  with 
Chaucer  will  prove  them  to  be  true. 


CHA  UCER.  35 

PHILIP. 

I  admire  tliera  as  much  as  you  do,  and  to  me  tlicy 
seem  to  condense  all  that  can  be  said  of  Cliancer.  But 
one  must  know  him  thoroughly  to  feel  their  truth  and 
fitness  fully.  At  the  first  glimpse  you  get  of  liis  face, 
you  are  struck  with  the  merry  twinkle  of  his  eye,  and 
the  suppressed  smile  upon  his  lips,  which  betrays  itself 
as  surely  as  a  child  in  playing  hide-and-seek.  It  is 
hard  to  believe  that  so  happy  a  spirit  can  have  ever  felt 
the  galling  of  that 

"Chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly  bound," 

or  have  beaten  its  vain  wings  against  the  insensible 
gates  of  that  awful  mystery  whose  key  can  never  be 
enticed  from  the  hand  of  the  warder,  Death.  But 
presently  the  broad,  quiet  forehead,  the  look  of  patient 
earnestness,  and  the  benignant  reverence  of  the  slightly 
bowed  head,  make  us  quite  forget  the  lightsome  im])res- 
sion  of  our  first  look.  Yet  in  the  next  moment  it 
comes  back  upon  us  again  more  strongly  than  ever. 
Humor  is  always  a  main  ingredient  in  highly  poetical 
natures.  It  is  almost  always  the  superficial  indication 
of  a  rich  vein  of  pathos,  nay,  of  tragic  feeling,  below. 
AVordsworth  seems  to  be  an  exception.  Yet  there  is  a 
gleam  of  it  in  his  sketch  of  that  philosopher 

"  Who  could  peep  and  botanize 
Upon  his  mother's  grave," 

and  of  a  grim,  reluctant  sort  in  some  parts  of  Peter 
Bell  and  the  Wagoner.  But  he  was  glad  to  sink  a 
shaft  beneath  the  surface,  where  he  could  gather  the 


36  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

more  precious  ore,  and  dwell  retired  from  the  jeers  of 
a  booris^h  world.  In  Chaucer's  poetry  the  humor  is 
playing  all  the  time  round  the  horizon,  like  heat-light- 
ning. It  is  unexpected  and  unpredictable ;  but,  as  soon 
as  you  turn  away  from  watching  for  it,  behold,  it 
flashes  again  as  innocently  and  softly  as  ever.  It 
mingles  even  with  his  pathos,  sometimes.  The  laugh- 
ing eyes  of  Thalia  gleam  through  the  tragic  mask  she 
holds  before  her  face.  In  spite  of  your  cold-water 
prejudices,  I  must  confess  that  I  like  Miss  Barrett's 
third  line  as  well  as  the  others.  But  while  we  are 
wandering  so  far  from  the  poor  old  widow's  yard,  that 
fox,  "  full  of  iniquity," 

"  That  new  Iscariot,  new  Ganelon, 
That  false  dissimulator,  Greek  Sinon." 

as  Chaucer  calls  him,  may  have  made  clean  away  with 
our  noble  friend  Sir  Chaunticlere. 

JOHN. 

Now,  Escnlapius  defend  tliy  bird!  The  Romans 
believed  that  the  lion  himself  would  strike  his  colors  at 
the  crowing  of  a  cock, — a  piece  of  natural  history  to 
which  the  national  emblems  of  England  and  France 
have  figuratively  given  the  lie.  But  cunning  is  often 
more  serviceable  than  bravery,  and  Sir  Russel  the  fox 
may  achieve  by  diplomacy  the  victory  to  which  the 
lion  was  not  equal. 

PHILIP. 

We  shall  see.  Diplomatists  are  like  the  two  Yankees 
who  swapped  jacknives  together  till  each  had  cleared 


CHA  UCER.  37 

five  dollars.  Such  a  Sir  Philip  Sydney  among  cocks, 
at  least,  could  not  fall  without  a  burst  of  melodious 
tears  from  every  civilized  bai-nyard.  The  poet,  after 
lamenting  that  Sir  Chaunticlere  had  not  heeded  better 
the  boding  of  his  dream,  warns  us  of  the  danger  of 
woman's  counsel,  from  Eve's  time  downward;  but 
takes  care  to  add, 

"  These  speeches  are  the  cock's,  and  none  of  mine ; 
For  1  no  harm  of  woman  can  divine." 

He  then  returns  to  his  main  argument ;  and  no  one, 
who  has  not  had  poultry  for  bosom-friends  from  child- 
hood, can  appreciate  the  accurate  grace  and  pastoral 
humor  of  his  descriptions.  The  fox,  meanwhile,  has 
crept  into  the  yard  and  hidden  himself. 

"  Fair  in  the  sand,  to  bathe  lier  merrily, 
Lies  Partelote,  and  all  her  sisters  by, 
Against  the  sun,  and  Chaunticlere  so  free 
Sang  merrier  than  the  mermaid  in  the  sea 
(For  Physiologus  saith  certainly 
How  that  they  sing  both  well  and  merrily), 
And  so  befell,  that,  as  he  cast  his  eye 
Among  the  worts  upon  a  butterfly, 
'Ware  was  he  of  the  fox  that  lay  full  low ; 
Nothing  it  lists  him  now  to  strut  or  crow. 
But  cries  anon,  Cuk !  cuk  !  and  up  doth  start, 
As  one  that  is  affrayed  in  his  heart." 

The  knight  would  have  fled,  as  there  are  examples 
enough  in  Froissart  to  prove  it  would  not  have  dis- 
graced his  spurs  to  do,  considering  the  greatness  of  the 
odds  against  him,  but  the  fox  plies  him  with  courteous 
flattery.  He  appeals  to  Sir  Chaunticlere's  pride  of 
birth,  pretends  to  have  a  taste  in  music,  and  is  desirous 


38  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

of  hearing  him  sing,  hoping  all  the  while  to  put  his 
tuneful  throat  to  quite  other  uses.  A  more  bitter  fate 
than  that  of  Orpheus  seems  to  be  in  store  for  our 
feathered  son  of  Apollo ;  since  his  spirit,  instead  of 
hastening  to  join  that  of  his  Eurydice,  must  rake  for 
corn  in  Elysian  fields,  with  the  bitter  thought,  that  not 
one  but  seven  Eurydices  are  cackling  for  him  "  mperis 
in  aurisy     The  fox 


"  Says,  *  Gentle  Sir,  alas  !  what  will  you  do  ? 
Are  you  afraid  of  him  that  is  your  friend  ? 
Now,  certes,  I  were  worse  than  any  fiend, 
If  I  to  you  wished  harm  or  villany ; 
I  am  not  come  your  counsel  to  espy. 
But  truly  all  that  me  did  hither  bring 
Was  only  for  to  hearken  how  j'ou  sing ; 

_  For,  on  my  word,  your  voice  is  merrier  even 
Than  any  angel  hath  that  is  in  heaven, 
And  you  beside  a  truer  feeling  show,  Sir, 
Than  did  Boece,  or  any  great  composer. 
My  Lord,  your  father  (God  his  spirit  bless! 
And  eke  your  mother,  for  her  gentleness) 
Hath  honored  my  poor  house  to  my  great  ease, 
And,  certes.  Sir,  full  fain  would  1  you  please. 
But,  since  men  talk  of  singing,  I  will  say 
(Else  may  I  lose  my  eyes  this  very  day), 
Save  you,  I  never  heard  a  mortal  sing 
As  did  your  father  at  the  daybreaking ; 
Certes,  it  was  with  all  his  heart  he  siuig. 
And,  for  to  make  his  voice  more  full  and  strong, 
He  would  so  pain  him,  that  with  either  eye 
He  needs  must  wink,  so  loud  he  strove  to  cry, 
And  stand  upon  his  tiptoes  therewithal. 
And  stretch  his  comely  neck  forth  long  and  small. 
Discretion,  too,  in  him  went  hand  in  hand 
With  music,  and  no  man  in  any  land 
In  wisdom  or  in  song  did  him  surpass.'  " 


CHAUCER.  ■  39 

JOIIX. 

I  thought  Chaucer's  portrait  of  the  son  perfect,  till 
Sir  Russcl  hung  up  his  of  the  father  beside  it.  AA'hv, 
Vandyke  himself  would  look  chalky  beside  such  flesh 
and  blood  as  this.  Such  a  cock,  one  would  think,  might 
have  served  a  score  of  Israelites  for  a  sacrifice  at  their 
feast  of  atonement,  or  have  been  a  sufficient  thank- 
oifering  to  the  gods  for  twenty  Spartan  victories. 
Stripped  of  his  feathers;  Plato  would  have  taken  him 
for  something  more  than  human.  It  must  have  been 
such  a  one  as  this  that  the  Stoics  esteemed  it  as  bad 
as  parricide  to  slay.* 

PHILIP. 

The  fox  continues, 

"' Let's  see,  can  you  your  father  counterfeit?' 
This  Cliaunticlere  his  wings  began  to  beat, 
As  one  that  could  not  his  foul  treason  spy, 
So  was  he  ravished  by  his  flattery. 


Sir  Chaunticlere  stood  high  upon  his  toes, 
Stretclied  forth  his  neck  and  held  his  eyes  shut  close, 
And  'gan  to  crow  full  loudly  for  the  nonce, 
When  Dan  Russel,  the  fox,  sprang  up  at  once. 
And  by  the  gorget  seized  Sir  Chaunticlere, 
And  on  his  back  toward  the  wood  him  bare." 

Forthwith  the  seven  wives  begin  a  sorrowful  ulula- 
tion ;  Dame  Partelote,  in  her  capacity  as  favorite, 
shrieking  more  sovereignly  than  the  rest.  Another 
Andromache,  she  sees  her  Hector  dragged  barbarously 
from  the  walls  of  his  native  Ilium,  whose  defence  and 

*  Cicero,  Orat.  pro  L.  Mura?na,  I  XXIX. 


40  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

prop  he  had  ever  been.     Then  follows  a  picture  which 
surpasses  even  Hogarth. 

"  Tlie  luckless  widow  and  her  daughters  two, 
Hearing  the  hens  cry  out  and  make  their  woe, 
Out  at  the  door  togetlier  rushed  anon, 
And  saw  liow  toward  the  wood  the  fox  is  gone, 
Bearing  upon  his  back  the  cock  away  ; 
They  cried,  '  Out,  out,  alas  !  and  welaway  ! 
Aha,  the  fox  ! '  and  after  him  they  ran. 
And,  snatching  up  their  staves,  ran  many  a  man ; 
Ean  Col,  the  dog,  ran  Talbot  and  Gerland, 
And  Malkin,  with  her  distaff  in  her  hand; 
Ran  cow  and  calf,  and  even  the  very  hogs, 
So  frighted  with  the  barking  of  the  dogs, 
And  shouting  of  the  men  and  women  eke, 
Ran  till  they  thought  their  hearts  would  break. 
And  yelled  as  fiends  in  hell  have  never  done; 
The  ducks  screamed,  thinking  that  their  sand  was  run  ; 
Tke  geese,  for  fear,  flew  cackling  o'er  the  trees ; 
Out  of  their  hive  buzzed  forth  a  swarm  of  bees; 
So  hideous  was  the  noise,  ah,  benedmte! 
Certes,  not  Jack  Straw  and  his  varletry 
Raised  ever  any  outcry  half  so  shrill. 
When  they  some  Fleming  were  about  to  kill. 
As  that  same  day  was  made  about  the  fox  : 
Vessels  of  brass  they  brought  forth  and  of  box, 
And  horns  and  bones,  on  which  they  banged  and  blew ; 
It  seemed  the  very  sky  would  split  in  two. 

The  cock,  who  lay  upon  the  fox's  back. 

In  all  his  dread  unto  his  captor  spake. 

And  said  :  '  Most  noble  Sir,  if  I  were  you, 

I  would  (as  surely  as  God's  help  I  sue) 

Cry,  "  Turn  again,  ye  haughty  villains  all ! 

A  very  pestilence  upon  you  fall ! 

Now  I  am  come  unto  the  forest's  side, 

Maugre  your  heads,  the  cock  shall  here  abide ; 

I  will  him  eat,  i'  faith,  and  that  anon.' " 

Answered  the  fox,  '  Good  sooth,  it  shall  be  done !' 


CHAUCER.  41 

And,  as  he  spake  the  word,  all  suddenly. 

The  cock  broke  from  his  jaws  deliverly, 

And  high  upon  a  tree  he  Hew  anon. 

And  when  the  fox  saw  that  tlie  cock  was  gone, 

*  Alas !  O  Chaunticlere,  alas  ! '  (juoth  he, 

'I  have,  't  is  true,  done  you  some  injury. 

In  that  I  made  you  for  a  while  afeard. 

By  seizing  you  from  forth  your  native  yard  ; 

But,  .Sir,  1  did  it  with  no  ill  intent ; 

Come  down,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  I  meant, 

God  help  me  as  I  speak  the  truth  to  you  ! ' 

'Nay,'  quoth  the  other,  'then  beshrew  us  two. 

But  first  beshrew  myself  both  blood  and  bones, 

If  thou  beguile  me  oftener  than  once ; 

Never  again  shalt  thou  by  flattery 

Make  me  to  sing  and  wink  the  while  mine  eye ; 

For  he  that  winketh,  when  he  most  should  see, 

Deserves  no  help  from  Providence,  pardie.'  " 


JOHX. 

So  our  friend  Sir  Chaunticlere  escapes  after  all.  The 
humorous  moral  of  the  story  is  heightened  by  the  cun- 
ning Reynard's  being  foiled  with  his  own  weapons. 
The  bare  fact  of  enduing  animals  with  speech  and 
other  human  properties  is,  in  itself,  highly  ludicrous. 
Fables  always  inculcate  magnanimity.  To  see  our 
weaknesses  thus  palpably  bodied  forth  in  their  appro- 
priate animal  costume  brings  them  down  from  the  false 
elevation  to  which  their  association  with  ourselves  had 
raised  them.  The  next  time  we  meet  them  in  life 
their  human  disguise  drops  off,  and  the  ape  or  the  owl 
takes  our  own  place  or  that  of  our  friend.  That  trea- 
tise of  Baptista  Porta's,  in  which  he  traces  the  likeness 
between  men's  faces  and  those  of  animals,  is  painful 
and  shocking;  but  when  we  casually  note  a  human 


42  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

expression  iu  the  countenance  of  a  brute,  it  is  merely- 
laughable.  In  the  former  instance  the  mind  is  carried 
downward,  and  in  the  latter  upward.  To  children  there 
is  nothing  humorous  in  ^sop.  They  read  his  fables 
as  soberly  as  they  afterwards  read  Scott's  novels.  The 
moral  is  always  skipped,  as  tedious.  The  honey-bag  is 
all  they  seek  ;  the  sting  is  of  no  use,  save  to  the  bee.  Yet, 
afterwards,  we  find  that-  Lucian  and  Rabelais  are  dull 
beside  ^sop ;  and  the  greater  the  seeming  incongruity 
the  greater  the  mirth. 

PHILIP. 

Chaucer  was  aware  of  this,  when  he  put  so  much 
pedantry  into  the  mouth  of  Cliaunticlcre ;  and  the  fox's 
allusion  to  Boethius  makes  me  laugh  in  spite  of  myself. 
Chaunticlere's  compliment  to  Dame  Partelote,  too, 
where  he  expresses  the  intense  satisfaction  which  he 
feels  in  observing  that 

"  She  is  so  scarlet  red  about  her  eyes," 

is  the  keenest  of  satires  upon  those  lovers  who  have 
sung  the  bodily  perfections  of  their  mistresses,  and  who 
have  set  their  aifections,  as  it  w-ere,  upon  this  year's 
leaves,  to  fall  off  with  them  at  the  bidding  of  the  first 
November  blast  of  fortune.  It  was  a  Platonic  notion, 
to  which  Spenser  gave  in  his  allegiance,  that  a  fair 
spirit  always  chose  a  fair  dwelling,  and  beautified  it  the 
more  by  its  abiding.  It  is  tlie  sweetest  apology  ever 
invented  for  a  physical  passion.  But  I  do  not  like  this 
filching  of  arrows  from  heavenly  love,  to  furnish  forth 
the  quiver  of  earthly  love  withal.  Love  is  the  most 
hospitable  of  sj^irits,  and  adorns  the  interior  of  his  home 


CHAUCER.   •  43 

for  tlie  nobler  welconio,  not  the  exterior  for  the  more 
lordly  show.  It  is  not  the  outside  of  his  dwelling  that 
invites,  but  the  soft  domestic  murmur  stealing  out  at 
the  door,  and  the  warm,  homely  light  gushing  from  the 
windows.  No  matter  into  what  hovel  of  clay  he  enters, 
that  is  straightway  the  palace,  and  beauty  holds  hei- 
court  in  vain.  I  doubt  if  Chaucer  were  conscious  of 
his  sarcasm,  but  I  can  conceive  of  no  more  cutting 
parody  than  a  sonnet  of  Chaunticlere's  upon  his  mis- 
tress's comb  or  beak,  or  other  gallinaceous  excellency. 
Imagine  him  enthusiastic  over  her  sagacity  in  the  hunt- 
ing of  earthworms,  and  her  grace  in  scratching  for  them 
with  those  toes 

"  White  as  lilies  in  the  grass," 

standing  upon  one  leg  as  he  composed  a  quatrain  upon 
her  tail-feathers,  and  finally  losing  himself  in  the 
melodious  ecstasy  of  her  cackle ! 

There  is  certainly,  as  you  have  said,  something  ludi- 
crous in  the  bare  idea  of  animals  indued  with  human 
propensities  and  feelings,  and  the  farther  away  we  gi'\ 
from  any  physical  resemblance,  the  more  keenly  moved 
is  our  sense  of  humor.  That  king-making  jelly  of  the 
bees  strips  Nicholas  and  Victoria  of  their  crowns  and 
ermine,  and  makes  them  merely  forked  radishes,  like 
the  rest  of  us.  And  when  I  learned  that  there  was 
domestic  slavery  among  certain  species  of  the  ants,  I 
could  not  but  laugh,  as  I  imagined  some  hexapodal 
McDuffie  mounted  upon  a  cherry-stone,  and  convincing 
a  caucus  of  chivalrous  listeners  of  their  immense  supe- 
riority to  some  neighboring  hill,  -whose  inhabitants  got 


44  FIEST  CONVERSATION. 

in  their  own  harvest  of  bread-crumbs  and  dead  beetles, 
unaided  by  that  patriarchal'  machinery. 

JOHN. 

The  passage  you  first  read  me  from  the  death-scene 
of  Arcite  moved  me  so  much  that  I  cannot  help  wish- 
ing you  would  read  me  something  more  in  the  same 
kind. 

PHILIP. 

I  were  no  true  lover,  if  I  were  to  express  any  fear 
of  your  being  disappointed.  Yet  I  know  not  if  you 
and  I  shall  be  equally  pleased.  The  very  gnarliest  and 
hardest  of  hearts  lias  some  musical  strings  in  it.  But 
they  are  tuned  diiferently  in  every  one  of  us,  so  that 
the  selfsame  strain,  which  wakens  a  thrill  of  sympa- 
thetic melody  in  one,  may  leave  another  quite  silent 
and  untouched.  For  whatever  I  love,  my  delight 
mounts  to  an  extravagance.  There  are  verses  which 
I  cannot  read  without  tears  of  exultation,  which  to 
others  are  merely  indifferent.  These  simple  touches, 
scattered  here  and  there  by  all  great  writers,  Avhich 
make  me  feel  that  I,  and  every  most  despised  and 
outcast  child  of  God  that  breathes,  have  a  common 
humanity  with  those  glorious  spirits,  overpower  me. 
Poetry  has  a  key  Avhich  unlocks  some  more  inward 
cabinet  of  my  nature  than  is  accessible  to  any  other 
power.  I  cannot  explain  it,  or  account  for  it,  or  say 
what  faculty  it  appeals  to.  The  chord  which  vibrates 
strongly  becomes  blurred  and  invisible  in  proportion  to 
the  intensity  of  its  impulse.  Often  the  mere  rhyme, 
the  cadence  and   sound  of   the  words,  awaken   this 


CHA  UCER.  45 

strange  feeling  in  nic.  Not  only  do  all  the  happy 
associations  of  my  earthly  life,  that  before  lay  scat- 
tered, take  beantiful  shapes,  like  iron  dust  at  the 
approach  of  the  magnet;  but  something  dim  and 
vague,  beyond  these,  moves  itself  in  me,  with  the 
uncertain  sound  of  a  far-off  sea.  My  sympathy  witii 
remotest  eld  becomes  that  of  a  bystander  and  an  actor. 
Those  noble  lines  of  Shakespeare,  in  one  of  his  sonnets, 
drop  their  veil  of  mysticism,  and  become  modern  and 
ordinary  : — 

"  Xo,  Time,  thou  shalt  not  boast  that  I  do  change, 
Thy  pyramids,  built  up  with  newer  might, 
To  me  are  nothing  novel,  nothing  strange; 
They  are  but  dressings  of  a  former  sight." 

The  grand  symphony  of  Wordsworth's  Ode  rolls 
through  me,  and  I  tremble,  as  the  air  does  with  the 
gatliering  thunders  of  the  organ.  ]\Iy  clay  seems  to 
have  a  sympathy  with  the  mother  earth  Avhence  it  was 
taken,  to  have  a  memory  of  all  that  our  orb  has  ever 
witnessed  of  great  and  noble,  of  sorrowful  and  glad. 
With  the  wise  Samian,  I  can  touch  the  mouldering 
buckler  of  Euphorbus  and  claim  an  interest  in  it  deeper 
than  that  of  its  antiquity.  I  have  been  the  bosom- 
friend  of  Leander  and  of  Romeo.  I  seem  to  go  behind 
Musfeus  and  Shakespeare,  and  to  get  my  intelligence  at 
first  hand.  Sometimes,  in  my  sorrow,  a  line  from 
Spenser  steals  in  upon  my  memory  as  if  by  some 
vitality  and  external  volition  of  its  own,  like  a  blast 
from  the  distant  trump  of  a  knight  pricking  toward 
the  court  of  Faerie ;  and  I  am  straightway  lifted  out 
of  that  sadness  and  shadow  into  the  sunshine  of  a 


46  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

previous  and  long-agone  experience.  Often,  too,  this 
seemingly  lawless  species  of  association  overcomes  me 
with  a  sense  of  sadness.  Seeing  a  waterfall  or  a  forest 
for  the  first  time,  I  have  a  feeling  of  something  gone,  a 
vague  regret,  that,  in  some  former  state,  I  have  druuk 
up  the  wine  of  their  beauty,  and  left  to  the  defrauded 
present  only  the  muddy  lees.  Yet,  again,  what  divine 
over-compensation,  when  the  same  memory  (shall  I  call 
it?),  or  fantasy,  lets  fall  a  drop  of  its  invisible  elixir  into 
my  cup,  and  I  behold  to-day,  which  before  showed  but 
forlorn  and  beggared,  clothed  in  the  royal  purple,  and 
with  the  golden  sceptre  of  a  line  of  majestical  ancestry  ! 

JOHN. 

If  I  do  not  understand  all  that  you  say,  I  can  at 
least  prove  my  superiority  to  vulgar  prejudice  by  be-" 
lieving  in  your  sincerity.  A  base  mind  always  takes 
that  for  cant  in  another,  which  would  be  such  in  itself, 
and  is  apt  to  blame  any  innocent  .assertion  of  peculiar- 
ity for  assumption.  Yet,  in  fact,  what  is  peculiar  to 
any  one  is  not  only  all  that  is  of  worth  in  him,  but  is 
also  the  most  likely  to  be  showing  itself  on  all  occa- 
sions. ^  Poetry  does  not  convey  the  same  impressions  to 
my  mind  as  to  yours,  but  other  things  have  sometimes 
given  me  a  feeling  akin  to  what  you  describe. 

PHILIP. 

When  you  speak  thus  of  poetry,  you  restrict  it  to 
what  has  been  written  by  the  jwets,  which  is  but  a 
small  part  of  it  yet.  In  attributing  a  certain  mystical 
influence  to  peculiar  associations,  I  said  more  than  I 
meant  to  have  done.     But  it  is  better  to  say  more  than 


CHA  UCER.  47 

less,  and,  if  I  err,  may  it  always  be  rather  upon  the 
side  of  confidence  than  of  suspicion.  I  intended  to 
imply  that  our  tastes  are  so  arbitrary  as  entirely  to 
forbid  the  establishment  of  a  code  of  criticism.  I 
doubt  if  any  better  reasoning  can  be  given  for  our 
likings  than  the  Latin  poet  gave  for  his  dislikes.  We 
can  assert  them,  but  when  we  strive  to  explain  and 
apologize  for  them,  we  are  quite  likely  to  lose  ourselves 
in  a  mire  of  cant  and  conventionality.  Jt  may  be  said 
that  it  is  truth  in  every  case  that  delights  us ;  but  the 
next  question  is  Pilate's — "  What  is  truth  ?  "  It  is  a 
different  thing  (let  me  rather  say  it  assumes  a  different 
a>^pect)  to  each  of  us,  and  thus  is  equally  amiable  to 
all.  How  shall  we  explain  it  ?  Here  is  a  man  who  is 
a  scholar  and  an  artist,  who  knows  precisely  how  every 
eftect  has  ''been  produced  by  every  great  writer  that 
ever  lived,  and  who  is  resolved  to  reproduce  them. 
But  the  heart  passes  by  his  pitfalls  and  traps  and  care- 
fully planned  springes,  to  be  taken  captive  by  some 
simple  fellow,  who  expected  the  event  as,  little  as  did 
his  prisoner.  The  critics  fix  upon  one  writer  as  a 
standard,  and  content  themselves  for  a  century  or  two 
with  measuring  everybody  else  by  him.  They  justly 
enough  consider  that  criticism  should  be  conservative ; 
but  their  idea  of  conservatism  is  that  of  a  Fakir,  who 
deems  it  religion  to  stand  upon  one  leg  till  all  its 
muscles  become  palsied  and  useless.  In  the  course  of 
time,  their  system,  if  it  ever  had  vitality,  becomes 
effete.  If  they  commend  Hercules,  it  is  for  his  skill 
at  Omphale's  distaff,  till  the  delightful  impropriety  of 
their  criticism  gets  them  laughed  off  the  stage.  Criti- 
cism seems  to  be  the  only  profession  into  which  men 


48  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

can  jump  without  any  training,  and  have  their  judg- 
ments allowed.  Yet  the  criticism  of  any  work  of  art 
demands  not  only  greater  natural  abilities,  but  more 
strenuous  and  self-sacrificing  previous  study,  than  that 
of  an  essay  in  physical  or  astronomical  science.  Men, 
whose  capacity  for  the  divine  eloquence  of  music  could 
be  filled  to  overflowing  with  the  muddy  inspirations  of 
a  barrel-organ,  undertake  to  pronounce  off-hand  upon 
the  melody  of  Apollo's  lute.  Most  professional  critics 
are  endowed  with  the  ears  of  Midas  without  the  trans- 
forming properties  of  his  touch,  and  they  emulate  the 
taste  of  the  animal  A\hose  most  striking  outward  cha- 
racteristic they  wear  in  choosing  only  the  burdocks  and 
thistles  of  an  author  for  their  critical  aliment.  If  a 
man  must  hang  his  nest  in  the  boughs  of  a  poem,  let 
him  rather  imitate  the  oriole,  which  adds  a  beauty  to 
the  tree,  than  the  woodpecker,  which  gains  its  liveli- 
hood by  picking  it  full  of  holes. 

In  fact,  the  only  safe  method  is  to  point  out  what 
parts  of  a  poem  please  the  critic,  and  to  let  the  rest  go. 
Posterity  will  reverse  our  judgments  ninety-nine  times 
in  the  hundred,  and  it  is  certainly  better  to  be  censured 
for  kindness  than  for  severity.  If  the  poets  have  not 
been  dull,  they  have  at  least  been  the  causes  of  a  lavish 
prodigality  of  dulness  in  otiier  men.  Taste  is  the  next 
gift  to  genius.  They  are  the  Eros  and  Antcros  of  Art. 
Without  his  brother,  the  first  must  remain  but  a  child 
still.  Poets  are  vulgarly  considered  deficient  in  the 
reasoning  faculty ;  whereas  none  was  ever  a  great  poet, 
without  having  it  in  excess,  and,  after  a  century  or  two, 
men  become  convinced  of  it.  They  jump  the  middle 
terms  of  their  syllogisms,  it  is  true,  and  assume  pre- 


CIIA  VCER.  49 

mises  to  which  the  world  has  not  yet  arrived  ;  but  time 
stamps  their  deductions  as  invincible.  Taste  is  that 
faculty  which  at  once  perceives,  and  hails  as  true,  ideas 
which  yet  it  has  not  the  gift  of  discovering  itself.  It 
is  not  something  to  be  educated  and  fostered,  but  is  as 
truly  innate  as  the  creative  faculty  itself.  A  man  with 
what  is  blunderingly  called  an  educated  taste  is  inca- 
pable of  aught  but  the  classic ;  that  is,  he  recognizes  in 
a  new  work  that  which  makes  the  charm  of  an  old 
one,  and  pronounces  it  worthy  of  admiration  accord- 
ingly. Put  the  right  foot  of  the  Apollo  forward  in- 
stead of  the  left,  and  call  it  Philip  of  Pokanoket,  and 
he  is  in  ecstasies  over  a  work  at  once  so  truly  national 
and  classic.  He  would  have  stood  dumb,  and  with  an 
untouched  heart,  before  the  Apollo  fresh  from  the  chisel 
of  the  sculptor. 

JOHN. 

Very  likely.  This  faculty  of  taste,  which  I  agree 
with  you  in  thinking  innate,  is  the  first  great  requisite 
of  a  critic.  Learning,  ingenuity,  and  boldness  are 
merely  its  handmaidens.  Our  critics  have  been  inter- 
esting in  one  regard ;  they  have  experimentally  demon- 
strated how  long  a  man  will  live  after  the  brains  are 
out.  This  aspect,  however,  is  for  the  physiologists. 
No  critic  that  ever  lived  would  have  the  hardihood  to 
foretell  the  precise  hues  of  to-morrow's  sunset,  and 
then  to  complain  if  it  gave  him  an  acre  of  purple  and 
gold  more  or  less.  Yet  the  same  man  would  confi- 
dently reduce  Art  to  a  chessboard,  upon  which  all  the 
combinations  are  mathematically  calculable  and  ex- 
haustible, and  compel  genius,  whose  very  essence  is 

4 


50  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

freedom,   to   confine    itself    to   these   little    arbitrary 
squares  of  black  and  white. 

PHILIP. 

And  yet  the  next  development  of  genius  is  as  unpre- 
dictable as  the  glory  of  the  next  sunset.  The  critics 
tell  us  the  day  for  epics  has  gone  by.  Wait  till  the 
master  comes,  and  see.  Everything  is  impossible  till 
it  is  done ;  and  when  the  man  has  come  and  accom- 
plished his  Avork,  the  world  says,  Am  I  thousands  of 
years  old,  to  be  gravelled  in  my  horn-book?  The 
Morld  has  been  to  blame  in  this  matter.  It  has  allowed 
those  to  be  critics  who  were  unfit  for  anything  else. 
Criticism  has  been  the  manor  and  glebe  of  those  who 
had  no  other  inheritance,  as  the  Church  used  to  be  to 
the  younger  sous  of  the  aristocracy  in  England.  And 
the  lion's  hide  of  anonymousness,  through  which  only 
the  judicious  catch  sight  of  the  betraying  ears,  has 
often  endued  Zoilus  with  a  terror  not  his  own. 

JOHN. 

After  all,  they  have  only  interfered  with  the  larder 
of  genius.  They  keep  it  upon  a  spare  diet,  that  it  may 
sup  the  more  heartily  Avith  the  Muses.  Hunger  has 
wrenched  many  a  noble  deed  from  men ;  but  there  is  a 
corrupting  leaven  of  self  in  all  that  Ambition  cau 
caress  out  of  them,  which  soon  turns  it  quite  stale  and 
musty.  Impletus  venter  non  vult  studere  libenter  w^as 
the  old  monkish  jiiigle,  and  let  us  be  grateful  in  due 
measure  to  the  critics  who  have  made  the  poets  unwill- 
ingly illustrate  it. 


CHA  UCER.  61 

PHILIP. 

Surely,  you  jest.  A  greasy  savor  of  the  kitchen 
intrudes  itself  into  whatever  is  done  for  the  belly's 
sake.  No.  What  a  man  pays  for  bread  and  butter  is 
worth  its  market  value,  and  no  more.  What  he  pays 
for  love's  sake  is  gold  indeed,  which  has  a  lure  for 
angels'  eyes,  and  rings  well  upon  God's  touchstone. 
And  it  is  love  that  has  inspired  all  true  hearts.  This 
is  the  ample  heritage  of  the  poets,  and  it  is  of  this  they 
have  made  us  heirs.  When  the  true  poet  is  born,  a 
spirit  becomes  incarnate  which  can  embrace  the  whole 
rude  earth  as  with  the  soft  arms  of  a  glorifying  atmo- 
sphere. The  inarticulate  moan  of  the  down-trodden 
he  shall  clothe  in  language,  and  so  wing  it  with  divine 
music  that  the  dullest  heart  shall  look  up  to  see  it 
knocking  at  heaven's  gate.  The  world's  joy,  erewhile 
a  leaden  cloud,  shall  turn  golden  under  his  sunlike  look. 
And  when  such  a  spirit  comes  forth  from  its  heavenly 
palace,  where  it  had  been  wrapped  softly  in  the  impe- 
rial purple  of  noble  purposes  and  happy  dreams,  and 
tended  by  all  the  majestical  spirits  of  the  past, — when 
it  comes  forth  in  obedience  to  the  beckonings  of  these 
its  benignant  guardians,  saying,  "  Behold,  my  brethren 
are  ahuugered  and  I  will  feed  them  ;  they  are  athii-st 
and  I  will  give  them  drink  ;  my  })leuty  is  for  them, 
else  is  it  beggary  and  starving," — and  is  jeered  at  and 
flouted  because  it  can  speak  only  the  tongue  of  the 
heaven  whence  it  came,  now  foreign  and  obsolete, — 
what  bewildering  bitterness,  what  trembling  even  to 
the  deep  Godward  bases  of  faith,  M'hat  trustfulness 
mocked  into  despair,  become  its  portion !     The  love, 

rNIVERSITl 


62  FIRST  CONVERSATION. 

tlie  hope,  the  faith,  which  it  had  sent  out  before  it  to 
briug  it  tidings  of  the  fair  land  of  promise,  come  back 
pale  and  weary,  and  cry  for  food  in  vain  to  the  famish- 
ing heart  which  once  so  royally  entertained  them.  The 
beautiful  humanity,  a  vision  of  which  had  braced  the 
sinev/s  of  its  nature,  and  had  made  all  things  the  vas- 
sals of  its  monarch  eye,  seems  to  it  now  but  as  a 
sphinx,  from  whose  unchangeable  and  stony  orbs  it  can 
win  no  look  of  recognition,  and  whose  granite  lips 
move  not  at  its  despairing  cry.  You  smile,  but  let  me 
think  it  is  for  sympathy.  A  sneer  is  the  weapon  of 
the  weak.  Like  other  devil's  weapons,  it  is  always 
cunningly  ready  to  our  hand,  and  there  is  more  poison 
in  the  handle  than  in  the  point.  But  how  many  noble 
hearts  have  writhed  with  its  venomous  stab,  and  fes- 
tered Avith  its  subtle  malignity  ! 

JOHN. 

Yet  from  some  of  its  hurts  a  celestial  ichor  flows,  as 
from  a  wounded  god.  I  would  hardly  change  the  sor- 
rowful words  of  the  poets  for  their  glad  ones.  Tears 
dampen  the  strings  of  the  lyre,  but  they  grow  the 
tenser  for  it,  and  ring  even  the  clearer  and  more  rav- 
ishingly.  We  may  be  but  the  chance  acquaintance  of 
him  who  has  made  us  the  sharer  of  his  joy,  but  he  who 
has  admitted  us  to  the  sanctuary  of  his  grief  has  made 
us  partakers  also  of  the  dignity  of  friendship.  Sorrow, 
you  will  allow,  if  not  scorn  or  neglect,  is  a  good  school- 
master for  poets.  Why,  it  has  wrenched  one  couplet 
of  true  poetry  out  of  Dr.  Johnson. 


CHA  UC.ER.  53 

PHILIP. 

You  mean  that  one  iu  his  "  Vanity  of  Human 
Wishes," 

"  There  mark  what  ills  the  scholar's  life  assail, — 
Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron,  and  the  jail." 

You  might  have  instanced,  too,  his  letter  to  Lord 
Chesterfield,  though  it  be  not  in  verse.  But  ill-for- 
tune, if  it  bring  out  the  poetry  of  a  prosaic  nature, 
■svill  but  deaden  a  highly  poetical  one.  - 

JOHN. 

Our  conversation  must  here  end  for  to-day.  To- 
morrow I  will  give  you  a  chance  to  lecture  farther 
upon  your  favorite  topics. 

PHILIP. 

In  spite  of  the  covert  satire  conveyed  in  your  allu- 
sion to  lectures,  I  will  readily  forgive  it  in  consideration 
of  the  commendable  patience  you  have  displayed. 
Till  to-morrow,  then,  farewell. 


SECOND  CONVEESATION. 


CHAUCER. 

PHILIP. 

Good  morning.  Your  experience  of  my  laboratory, 
I  am  glad  to  see,  has  not  made  you  unwilling  to  become 
my  prisoner  again. 

JOHN. 

I  only  ask,  most  enthusiastic  alchemist,  that,  in  your 
search  after  gold,  you  will  not  put  any  such  explosive 
material  into  your  crucible  as  shall  send  us  on  a  voyage 
through  the  roof  in  search  of  our  El  Dorado.  With 
this  proviso,  let  us  to  our  experiments  again. 

You  agreed  with  me  in  my  praise  of  Elizabeth 
Barrett's  lines ;  can  you  give  me  an  illustration  of 
Chaucer's 

"  Infantine, 
Familiar,  clasp  of  things  divine"? 

PHILIP. 

It  would  be  difficult.  An  author's  piety  cannot  be 
proved  from  the  regular  occurrence  of  certain  decorums 
and  respectabilities  of  religion  in  his  works,  but  from  a 
feeling  which  permeates  the  whole.  I  have  read  books 
in  which  the  name  of  God  Avas  never  once  so  much  as 
alluded  to,  which  yet  irresistibly  persuaded  me  of  the 
64 


CHA  UCER.  55 

writer's  faitli  in  liim  and  childlike  love  of  him.  And 
I  have  read  others,  where  that  blessed  name,  with  a 
parcntheticiil  and  systematic  piety,  made  part  of  every 
sentence,  and  only  impressed  me  like  the  constantly 
recnrrino-  figures  upon  calico.  There  is  no  intentional 
piety  about  Chaucer,  no  French  collar-aud-wristband 
morality,  too  common  in  our  day.  Now,  certain  days  of 
the  week,  and  certain  men,  seem  to  claim  a  monopoly  in 
religion.  It  is  something  quite  too  costly  and  precious 
to  make  part  of  every  day's  furniture.  We  must  not 
carry  it  into  the  street  or  the  market,  lest  it  get  soiled. 
We  doff  it  and  hang  it  up  as  easily  as  a  Sunday  suit. 
The  ancients  esteemed  it  sacrilege  to  touch  what  was 
set  apart  for  the  gods.  Many  of  our  own  time  imitate 
that  ethnic  scrupulousness,' and  carefully  forbear  religi- 
on, yet  are  deemed  pious  men,  too.  In  Chaucer,  you 
will  find  a  natural  j)iety  everywhere  shining  through, 
mildly  and  equably,  like  a  lamp  set  in  an  alabaster 
vase.  The  wise  man  maintains  a  hospitable  mind.  He 
scruples  not  to  entertain  thoughts,  no  matter  how 
strange  and  foreign  they  may  be,  and  to  ask  news  of 
them  of  realms  which  he  has  never  explored.  He  has 
no  fear  of  their  stirring  any  treason  under  his  own 
roof.  Chaucer  apparently  acted  upon  this  principle. 
He  loved  speculation,  and,  when  he  was  running  down 
some  theological  dogma,  he  does  not  mind  leaping  the 
church  inclosure,  and  pursuing  his  prey  till  it  takes 
refuge  under  the  cassock  of  the  priest  himself.  But, 
though  he  seems  not  to  set  much  store  by  forms  and 
outward  observances,  he  is  quite  too  near  the  days  of 
wonder  and  belief  and  earnestness  not  to  be  truly 
religious. 


56  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

The  earliest  poetry  of  all  countries  is  sacred  j)oetry, 
or  that  in  which  the  idea  of  God  predominates  and  is 
developed.  The  first  effort  at  speech  which  man's 
nature  makes  in  all  tongues  is,  to  pronounce  the  word 
"  Father."  Reverence  is  the  foundation  of  all  poetry. 
From  reverence  the  spirit  climbs  on  to  love,  and  thence 
beholds  all  things.  No  matter  in  what  Scytiiian 
fashion  these  first  recognitions  of  something  above  and 
beyond  the  soul  are  uttered,  they  contain  the  germs  of 
psalms  and  prophecies.  Whether,  for  a  while,  the 
immortal  guest  rests  satisfied  with  a  Fetish  or  an 
Apollo,  it  has  already  grasped  the  clew  which  leads 
unerringly  to  the  very  higliest  idea.  For  reverence  is 
the  most  keen-eyed  and  exacting  of  all  the  faculties, 
and,  if  there  be  the  least  flaw  in  its  idol,  it  will  kneel 
no  longer.  From  wood  it  rises  to  gold  and  ivory; 
from  these,  to  the  yet  simpler  and  more  majestic  mar- 
ble; and,  planting  its  foot  upon  that,  it  leaps  upward  to 
the  infinite  and  invisible.  Let  our  external  worship  be 
paid  to  what  gods  you  will,  the  soul  is  restless  and 
dissatisfied  until  she  has  soared  into  the  higher  region 
of  that  true  piety  in  whose  presence  creeds  and  forms 
become  mere  husks  and  straw.  Always  in  her  intimate 
recesses  the  soul  builds  an  altar  to  the  unknown  God, 
and  it  is  here  that  Poesy  Jiiakcs  her  sacrifices  and 
officiates  as  authorized  priestess.  When  I  assume  rev- 
erence, then,  as  the  very  primal  essence  and  life  of 
poetry,  I  claim  for  it  a  nobler  stii-p  than  it  has  been 
the  fashion  to  allow  it.  Beyond  Adam  runs  back  its 
illustrious  genealogy.  •  It  stood  with  Uriel  in  the  sun, 
and  looked  down  over  the  battlements  of  heaven  with 
the  angelic  guards.     In  short,  it  is  no  other  than  the 


CHA  UCER.  57 

religious  sentiment  itself.  That  is  poetry  \,\\k\\  makes 
sorrow  lovely,  and  joy  solemn  to  ns,  and  reveals  to  us 
the  holiness  of  things.  Faith  casts  herself  upon  her 
neck  as  upon  a  sister's.  She  shows  us  what  glimpses 
we  get  of  life's  spiritual  face.  What  she  looks  on 
becomes  miraculous,  though  it  be  but  the  dust  of  the 
wayside ;  and  miracles  become  but  as  dust,  for  their 
simpleness.  There  is  nothing  noble  without  her ;  with 
her  there  am  be  nothing  mean.  What  songs  the 
Druids  sang  within  the  sacred  circuit  of  Stonehenge  we 
can  barely  conjecture ;  but  those  forlorn  stones  doubt- 
less echoed  with  appeals  to  a  higher  something;  and 
are  not  even  now  without  their  sanctity,  since  they 
chronicle  a  nation's  desire  after  God.  Whether  those 
forest-priests  worshipped  the  strangely  beautiful  ele- 
ment of  fire,  or  if  the  pilgrim  Belief  pitched  her  tent 
and  for  a  night  rested  in  some  ruder  and  bleaker  creed, 
there  we  may  yet  trace  the  light  footsteps  of  Poesy,  as 
she  led  her  sister  onward  to  fairer  fields,  and  streams 
flowing  nearer  to  the  oracle  of  God. 


JOHN. 

With  you,  then,  the  reading  of  any  poet  must  begin, 
like  the  Romish  missal,  with  a  sursum  cordn.  It  is  no 
wonder  that  you  are  so  sore  against  jhe  critics,  for  they 
usually  reverse  the  rule.  The  ]wets,  however,  have 
given  them  some  reason  for  if.  They  have  seldom 
been  such  religious  teachers  as  I  should  wish  to  be 
guided  by.  Byron  seems  to  have  written  by  a  redder 
light  than  usually  comes  from  above ;  and  Milton  and 
Burns   show   a   very   anomalous   sympathy    for   that 


58  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

unfortunate  pei^sonage  whom  Latimer  calls  the  only 
bishop  faithful  in  his  diocese,  j 

PHILIP. 

Byron  might  have  made  a  great  poet.  As  it  is,  his 
poetry  is  the  record  of  a  struggle  between  his  good  and 
his  baser  nature,  in  which  the  latter  wins.  The  fall  is 
great  in  proportion  to  the  height  from  which  one  is 
hurled.  An  originally  beautiful  spirit  becomes  the 
most  degraded  when  perverted.  It  would  fain  revenge 
itself  upon  that  purity  from  which  it  is  an  unhappy  and 
restless  exile,  and  drowns  its  remorse  in  the  drunken- 
ness and  vain  bluster  of  defiance.  There  is  a  law  of  neu- 
tralization of  forces  which  hinders  bodies  from  sinking 
beyond  a  certain  depth  in  the  sea;  but  in  the  ocean  of 
basene&ithe  deeper  we  get  the  easier  is  the  sinking.  As 
for  the  kindness  which  Milton  and  Burns  felt  for  the 
Devil,  I  am  sure  God  thinks  of  him  with  pity  a  thousand 
times  to  their  once,  and  the  good  Origen  believed  him 
not  incapable  of  salvation. 

JOHN. 

We  have  forgotten  Chaucer. 

PHILIP. 

We  shall  come  to  him  presently.  The  straight  line 
is  not  the  line  of  beauty.  There  is  an  oak-wood  a  mile 
or  two  hence,  whither  I  often  walk,  but  I  never  make 
for  it  with  the  straightforward  pertinacity  of  a  turnpike. 
A  clump  of  golden-rods,  or  a  sprig  of  succory,  is 
enough  to  draw  me  aside;  and  when  I  reach  my  oaks, 
I  bring  them  a  heart  more  open,  and  a  keener  sym- 


CHA  UCER.  50 

patliy.  Once  there,  I  am  not  locked  up  in  them,  but 
seek  out  glimpses  of  landscape  on  every  side,  the  enjoy- 
ment of  which  I  seem  to  owe  to  their  hospitality.  The 
rustle  of  their  leaves  makes  my  car  sympathize  in  the 
happiness  of  my  eye;  and  when  I  turn  wholly  l)ack  to 
them  again,  their  shade  seems  thicker,  their  vistas  more 
warmly  sprinkled  with  sunshine,  and  their  trunks  more 
royally  mantled  with  moss.  Let  Chaucer  be  our  oak- 
wood  to-day ./  There  is  nothing  that  does  not  harmonize 
with  and  illustrate  what  we  have  most  at  heart,  and 
one  key  will  open  all  the  doors  of  nature.  No  man,  if 
he  try,  can  enjoy  one  thing  at  a  time;  nor  can  he  love 
one  thing  truly,  and  be  indifferent  to  any  other  the 
most  remote. 

JOHN. 

It  is  a  bad  sign  when  a  man  is  skilful  in  apologies. 
But  I  shall  accept  your  excuse,  since  we  are  met  to 
converse,  and  not  to  argue.     So  now  to  Chaucer  again. 

PHILIP. 

I  am  ready.  But  this  attempting  to  illustrate  a  great 
poet  by  specimens  is  like  giving  an  idea  of  Niagara  by 
a  bottle-full  of  water  brought  thence,  or  of  Wachuset 
by  a  fragment  of  its  granite.  I  siiall  read  you  now  an 
extract  from  the  "  Clerk's  Tale."  It  is  the  story  of 
"  patient  Grizzel,"  and  interests  me  the  more  from  his 
telling  us  that  he 

"  Learned  it  at  Padua  of  a  worthy  clerk, 
So  proven  by  his  word  and  by  his  work ; 
He  is  dead  now,  and  nailed  in  his  chest, 
I  pray  to  God  to  give  his  soul  good  rest; 
Francis  Petrarch,  the  poet  laureate, 
This  scholar  hight." 


60  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

JOHN. 
But  was  Chaucer  ever  in  Italy  ? 

PHILIP. 

It  is  highly  probable,  though  not  certain.  It  is  not 
likely  that  Chaucer  would  have  quoted  Petrarch  as  his 
authority  rather  than  Boccace,  unless  the  fact  be  as  he 
states  it.  I  see  no  reason  to  doubt  it.  Besides,  incre- 
dulity robs  us  of  many  pleasures,  and  gives  us  nothing 
in  return.  It  is  well  to  distrust  what  we  hear  to  make 
us  think  worse  of  a  man,  and  to  accept  a  story's  pleas- 
antness as  prhad  facie  evidence  of  its  truth. 

JOHN. 

It  is  certainly  agreeable  to  imagine  Petrarch  and 
Chaucer  together ;  and  who  knows  but  Boccace  filled 
up  the  number  of  the  classic  feast?  I  wonder  there 
is  no  tradition  concerning  our  poet's  journey  to  Italy, 
as  there  is  about  INIilton's.  The  graves  of  poets 
seem  to  be  the  natural  soil  out  of  which  such  sweet 
legendary  flowers  grow. 

PHILIP. 

The  Italians  would  have  had  one.  They  are  either 
very  scrupulous,  or  deficient  in  originality  of  invention 
in  such  matters ;  for  precisely  the  same  story  is  told  of 
Tasso  and  Pulci,  and,  I  think,  of  Ariosto. 

JOHN. 

You  mean  that  of  the  bandit's  dismissing  them 
courteously,  on  learning  their  names.  A  very  Claude 
Duval  of  ruffians !     One  finds  it  hard  to  believe  in 


CHA  UCER.  Gl 

three  such.  Yet  it  may  be  true.  It  could  never  have 
happened  in  England  or  America,  where  the  mass  of 
the  people  know  less  and  care  less  about  their  poets 
than  in  any  other  countries.  Yet  our  native  tongue 
boasts  the  greatest  and  most  universal  of  poets.  The 
Sicilians  paid  a  finer  compliment  to  Euripides,  and 
Milton  has  immortalized  Alexander's  homage  to  the 
memory  of  Pindar. 

PHILIP. 

The  story  of  Griselda,  of  course,  you  know  already ; 
so  that  I  shall  need  but  a  short  prefiice  to  what  I  read. 
The  first  trial  which  the  husband  makes  of  his  wife's 
patience  is  by  taking  away  her  infant  daughter  (her 
only  child),  with  the  avowed  purpose  of  having  it 
murdered.  A  sergeant  is  sent  to  take  the  babe.  At 
first,  Griselda  is  silent; 

"  But  at  the  last  to  speak  she  thus  began, 
And  meekly  she  unto  the  sergeant  prayed 
(So  as  he  was  a  worthy  gentleman), 
That  she  miglit  kiss  her  child  before  it  died : 
And  in  her  lap  the  little  child  she  laid. 
With  full  sad  face,  and  'gan  the  child  to  bliss, 
And  lulled  it,  and  after  'gan  it  kiss." 

JOHN. 

Very  sweet  and  touching.  I  like,  too,  what  our 
modern  critics  would,  in  all  probability,  find  fault  with, 
the  frequent  repetition  of  the  word  "child."  The 
poet  had  put  himself  so  in  the  mother's  place  that  any 
less  tender  epithet  would  not  satisfy  him.  Nowadays, 
an  author  will  wade  around  through  a  quagmire  of 
verbiage  to  avoid  using  the  same  word  over  again. 
The  old  poets  were  more  straightforward. 


62  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

PHILIP. 

I  am  soriy  that  we  have  lost  the  use  of  the  word 
"bliss"  as  a  verb,  so  much  motherliuess  is  conveyed 
by  it. 

"  And  thus  she  said,  in  her  benignant  voice : 
'  Farewell,  my  child !  I  shall  thee  never  see ; 
But,  since  that  I  have  marked  thee  with  the  cross, 
Of  that  same  father  blesscd  maj'st  thou  be, 
\Vho  died  for  us  uj)on  a  cross  of  tree  : 
Thy  spirit,  little  child,  his  care  I  make, 
For  thou  this  night  must  perish  for  my  sake.' 

"  I  trow  that  for  a  nurse,  in  such  a  case. 
It  had  been  hard  this  pity  for  to  see ; 
Well  might  a  mother,  then,  have  cried,  alas ! 
But  ne'ertheless  so  steadfast-souled  was  she, 
Tliat  she  endured  all  adversity, 
And  meekly  to  the  sergeant  there  she  said, 
'  Take  back  again  your  little  youngling  maid.' 

" '  Go  now,'  said  she,  '  and  do  my  lord's  behest ; 
But  one  thing  would  I  pray  you  of  your  grace, 
Unless  my  lord  forbid  you,  at  the  least. 
Bury  this  little  body  in  some  place 
Where  neither  birds  nor  beasts  may  it  displace.' 
But  to  that  purpose  he  no  word  would  say, 
But  took  the  child  and  went  upon  his  way." 

You  are  silent. 

JOHN. 

I  was  listening  to  hear  the  mother's  tears  fall  upon 
the  face  of  her  child.  The  first  voice  that  is  heard, 
after  the  reading  of  good  poetry,  comes  ordinarily  from 
the  shallowest  heart  in  the  company.  Praise  follows 
truth  afar  off,  and  only  overtakes  her  at  the  grave; 
plausibility  clings  to  her  skirts  and  holds  her  back,  till 


CHAUCER.  G3 

then.  I  never  knew  a  woman  mIio  thought  Mell  of 
GriselJa,  and  I  confess  I  would  not  choos(;  that  woman 
for  a  wife  who  did.  ■  Her  duty  as  a  mother  was  para- 
mount to  her  duty  as  a  wife.  As  is  not  uncommon, 
she  betrayed  a  general  principle  for  the  sake  of  a  par- 
ticular one,  which  had  fastened  upon  her  imagination. 
Patience,  when  it  is  a  divine  thing,  is  active,  not 
passive.  Chaucer  has  so  tenderly  contrived  to  en- 
list our  pity  as  to  save  her  from  contempt.  With 
what  motherly  endearment  she  repeats  the  word 
"  little,^'  as  if  to  move  the  sympathy  of  the  stone- 
hearted  sergeant  I 

PHILIP. 

What  you  say  reminds  me  of  a  passage  in  the 
"  Yorkshire  Tragedy,"  one  of  the  plays  attributed  to 
Shakespeare.  I  have  seen  it  somewhere  quoted  as  a 
proof  that  it  was  his.  The  touch  of  nature  in  it  is  ) 
worthy  of  him,  but  there  is  nothing  in  the  rest  of  the 
drama  to  sustain  the  hypothesis.  A  spendthrift  father, 
in  a  fit  of  madness,  murders  his  children.  As  he  seizes 
one  of  them,  the  little  fellow,  to  appease  him,  calls  him- 
self by  the  name  his  father  had  doubtless  given  him  in 
happier  days.  "  O,  what  will  you  do,  fiither  ?  /  am 
your  white  hoy." 

JOHN. 

That  is  very  touching.  How  is  it  that  this  simple- 
ness,  the  very  essence  of  tragic  pathos,  has  become 
unattainable  of  late  ?  I  know  only  one  modern  drama- 
tist capable  of  it,  though  nothing  would  seem  easier ; 
I  mean  Robert  Browning.  Wordsworth  has  as  deep 
glances  now  and  then  in  his  poems,  but  his  tragedy  of 


64  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

"  The  Borderers "  is  as  level  as  a  prairie.  There  is 
scarce  anything  tragic  about  it,  except  the  reading  of 
it ;  yet  what  insight  has  he  shown  in  some  parts  of 
"  The  Excursion  "  !  Among  a  thousand  such  passages 
in  Shakespeare,  there  is  one  which  always  struck  me  as 
peculiarly  fine.  It  is  in  the  first  scene  of  the  second 
act  of  "  King  John."     Queen  Elinor  says  to  Arthur, 

"  Come  to  tliy  grandam,  child." 

Constance  replies  with  sarcastic  bitterness,  and  yet,  I 
fancy,  with  hot  tears  in  her  eyes  the  while, — 

"  Do,  child,  go  to  it'  grandam,  child; 
Give  grandam  kingdom,  and  it'  grandam  will 
Give  it  a  plum,  a  cherry,  and  a  fig. 
There  's  a  good  grandam." 

Who  but  Shakespeare  would  have  dared  this  baby- 
talk  in  such  a  place !     Yet  how  admirable  ! 

PHILIP. 

These  simplest  thouglits,  feelings,  and  experiences, 
that  lie  upon  the  very  surface  of  life,  are  overlooked  by 
all  but  uncommon  eyes.  Most  look  upon  them  as 
mere  \veeds.  Yet  a  Aveed,  to  him  that  loves  it,  is  a 
flower ;  and  there  are  times  when  we  would  not  part 
with  a  sprig  of  chickweed  for  a  whole  continent  of 
lilies.  No  man  thinks  his  own  nature  miraculous, 
while  to  his  neighbor  it  may  give  a  surfeit  of  Monder. 
Let  him  go  where  he  will,  he  can  find  no  heart  so 
worth  a  study  as  his  own.  The  prime  fault  of  modern 
poets  is,  that  they  are  resolved  to  be  peculiar.  Thoy 
are  not  content  that  it  should  come  of  itself,  but  they 


CHA  UCER.  65 

must  dig  and  bore  for  it,  sinking  their  wells  usually 
through  the  grave  of  some  buried  oi-ginalitv,  so  that  if 
any  water  rises  it  is  tainted.  Kead  most  volumes  of 
poems,  and  you  are  reminded  of  a  French  bill  of  fare, 
where  everytliing  is  h  /«  something  else.  Even  a  potato 
an  naturd  is  a  godsend.  When  will  poets  learn  that  a 
grass-blade  of  their  own  raising  is  worth  a  bazTow-load 
of  flowers  from  their  ncij^hbor's  y-arden  ? 

JOHX. 

Men  ordinarily  Avear  as  many  sets  of  borrowed 
opinions  as  the  grave-digger  in  Hamlet  wears  waist- 
coats. They  look  quite  burly,  till  you  strip  them; 
and  then,  too  often,  you  find  but  a  withered  anatomy 
beneath.  But,  after  all,  borrowed  garments  never  keep 
one  warm.  A  curse  goes  with  them,  as  with  Harry 
Gill's  blankets.  Nor  can  one  get  smuggled  goods 
safely  into  kingdom-come.  How  lank  and  pitifid 
does  one  of  these  gentry  look,  after  posterity's  cus- 
toms-officers have  had  the  plucking  of  him ! 

PHILIP. 

It  certainly  is  odd  that  it  should  be  so  hard  to  get  a 
man's  natural  thought  from  him.  No  gift  seems  to  be 
more  rare  than  that  of  conveying  simply  and  distinctly 
the  peculiar  impression  which  any  object  makes  upon 
the  mind  of  the  recipient.  Give  a  man  anything  to 
describe,  and  he  forthwith  puzzles  himself  to  talk  about 
it  as  some  other  admired  person  would  do;  so  that  we 
get  a  thousand  worthless  books  for  one  good  one.  And 
yet  the  sincere  thought  which  the  meanest  pebble 
gives  to  a  human  soul  is  of  great  price  to  us.     A  fa- 

5 


66  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

miliar  instance  may  be  taken  from  Ossian.  Macpher- 
sou,  who  has  given  us  some  highly  original  images, 
spoils  half  his  work  by  forgetting  that  his  bard  was  a 
Gael,  and  not  a  Greek,  and  by  endeavoring  to  make 
Ossian  speak  like  Plomer. 

JOHN. 

Like  Pope's  Homer,  you  mean.  This  constant 
reproduction  of  old  thoughts  in  a  new  dress  recalls  to 
my  mind  a  tragic  reminiscence  of  my  childhood.  At 
a  museum,  upon  which  I  was  in  tlie  habit  of  monthly 
exhausting  my  childish  income  with  the  spendthrift 
ambition  of  being  one  day  large  enough  to  be  charged 
full  price  for  admission,  there  was  a  wax  representation 
of  Othello  and  Desdemona.  Who  these  mythological 
personages  were,  I  knew  not;  but  Othello  seemed  to 
me  the  model  of  a  fairy  prince,  and  I  sought  always 
vainly,  in  the  real  world  without,  for  anything  like 
Desdemona.  The  "Boston  Beauty"  and  "Miss 
McRea,"  in  the  glass  case  of  the  next  room,  could 
never  detain  my  feet,  or  wile  my  heart  from  its  fealty 
to  her.  Listen  to  the  catastrophe.  Just  after  a  famous 
murder  had  been  perpetrated,  my  funds  had  accunm- 
lated  sufficiently  to  enable  me  to  visit  the  .shrine  of  my 
romance.  The  proprietor  of  that  museum  may  liave  a 
sweet  conscience,  but  I  am  persuaded  that  he  put  a 
ninepence  in  his  pocket  that  day  which  made  his  pillow 
uneasy.  INIy  Desdemona,  to  glut  a  depraved  public 
appetite,  had  been  metamorphosed  into  a  ISIr.  Jen- 
kins, and  my  Othello  into  his  murderer !  That  divine 
wax, 

"  That  boon  prefigured  in  my  earliest  wish," 


CHA  UCEB.  67 

whicli  I  had  worshipjicd  as  never  Pygmalion  did  his 
image,  or  the  young  Roman  liis  statue  of  Venus,  had 
been  violated.  Into  that  room  I  never  ventured  ao-ain 
I  could  have  broken  the  nose  off  the  "  Boston  Beauty  " 
for  her  look  of  attemj)ted  unconcern,  through  which 
the  ill-concealed  triumpii  sparkled.  With  that  feeling 
of  revenge  upon  itself,  with  which  the  heart  consoles 
itself  for  any  loss  by  rushing  to  the  other  extreme,  I 
thenceforward  centred  all  my  adoration  upon  "the 
great  sea-vampire,"  an  entirely  original  triangular  con- 
ception by  an  ingenious  artist  in  leather,  which  my 
mind,  early  disciplined  to  the  miraculous  by  Gold- 
smith's "  Animated  Nature,"  readily  accepted  as  au- 
thentic. 

PHILIP. 

This  tragic  recollection  has,  I  hope,  put  your  mind 
in  tune  for  hearing  more  of  Griselda's  sorrows.  But 
you  must  read  the  rest  of  her  story  for  yourself.  I 
have  many  other  delicates  for  you  to  taste,  before  we 
part.  Let  me  read  you  an  exquisite  stanza  from 
"Troilus  and  Creseide."  It  tells  you  how  Creseide 
first  avowed  her  love.  There  is  nothing  more  tender 
iu  Coleridge's  "  Genevieve." 

"  And,  as  the  early,  bashful  nightingale 
Doth  hush  at  first  when  she  begins  to  sing. 
If  chance  she  heareth  any  shepherd's  tale, 
Or  in  the  hedges  any  rusteling, 
And  then  more  boldly  doth  her  voice  outring ; 
Cressid  right  so,  when  her  first  dread  was  spent, 
Opened  her  heart  and  gave  her  love  full  vent." 

I  know  not  where  the  nightingale  is  more  sweetly 


68  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

touched  upon.  Shakespeare  has  alluded  to  it  once  or 
twice,  but  uot  with  enthusiasm.  Coleridge,  in  one  of 
his  early  poems,  has  given  us  a  high  strain  of  music 
about  it.  Milton's  sonnet  is  not  so  fine  as  most  of  his, 
though  the  opening  is  exquisite. 

JOHN. 

Keats  has  written,  perhaps,  the  best  ode  in  the  lan- 
guage, upon  this  bird.  Wherever  the  learned  fix  the 
site  of  Eden,  it  will  never  be  in  America,  where  we 
have  neither  the  nightingale  nor  the  skylark.  Yet 
we  have  the  bobolink  and  the  mocking-bird,  in  rich 
compensation.  Nor  are  our  northern  nights  wholly 
without  their  music.  I  have  often  heard  the  song- 
sparrow  and  the  robin  at  midnight ;  and  what  solitude 
would  be  quite  lonely,  wanting  the  mournful  plaint  of 
the  whippoorwill  ?  The  newspapers  now  and  then 
have  lent  their  diurnal  immortality  to  foolish  puning 
verses  upon  this  last  bird  ;  but  the  persons  who  wrote 
them  could  never  have  heard  its  voice,  or  they  would 
have  wasted  their  time  in  some  less  idle  manner.  In 
Virginia  and  the  Carolinas,  too,  the  mocking-bird  sings 
all  night,  like  another  Romeo,  beneath  the  leafy  bal- 
cony of  his  betrothed.  How  much  dignity  does  the 
love  of  nature  give  to  minds  otherwise  trivial ! 
White's  Selborne  has  become  a  classic.  If  he  had 
chronicled  the  migrations  of  kings  and  queens  and 
dukes  and  duchesses,  he  would  have  deserved  only  the 
trunkraaker's  gratitude.  But  his  court-journal  of 
blackbirds  and  goldfinches  has  won  him  an  inner  nook 
in  our  memories. 


CHA  UCER.  69 

PHILIP. 
I  intend  to  read  you  presently  another  passage  from 
"  Troiliis  and  Creseide,"  Avhich  lias  been  excellently 
modernized  by  \\'ordsworth .  But  first  I  \\\\\  show 
you  that  Chaucer's  love  of  nature  was  a  paasion  with 
him.  Listen  to  his  praise  of  the  daisy.  It  is  in  the 
prologue  to  his  "  Legend  of  Good  Women/'  and  per- 
haps I  am  partial  to  it  from  its  being  the  favorite  of  a 
very  dear  friend.  If  the  passage  have  no  other  merit, 
it  has  at  least  that  of  being  beloved  by  one  whose  love 
is  like  a  crown  to  whatever  it  blesses. 

"  Wlien  tlie  month  of  May 
Is  come,  and  I  can  hear  the  small  birds  sing, 
And  the  fresh  flowers  have  begun  to  spring, 
Good-bve,  my  book!  devotion,  too,  good-bye  I 
Now  this  peculiar  frame  of  mind  have  I, 
That,  among  all  the  flowers  of  the  mead, 
I  love  the  most  that  flower  w^te  and  red, 
"Which  men  in  our  town  the  daisy  name  ; 
And  such  affection  draws  me  unto  them. 
As  I  have  said  before,  when  come  is  May, 
That  in  my  bed  there  dawneth  not  a  day' 
But  I  am  up  and  walking  in  the  mead 
To  see  this  flower  against  the  sunshine  spread, 
"When  it  upriseth  early  by  the  morrow : 
That  blissful  sight  doth  soften  all  my  sorrow ; 
So  glad  am  I,  when  I  have  sight  of  it. 
To  pay  it  fealty  and  reverence  fit. 
As  one  that  is  of  other  flowers  the  flower, 
Having  all  good  and  honor  for  her  dower, 
And  ever  fair  alike,  and  fresh  of  hue ; 
And  ever  I  love  it  with  a  passion  new. 
And  ever  shall  until  my  heart  shall  die: 
I  swear  it  not,  and  yet  I  will  not  lie." 

How  like  a  lover  he  heaj)s  praise  upon  praise,  and 


70  SECOXD  CONVERSATION. 

protestation  on  protestation,  as  if  he  were  fearful  the 
blossom  might  wither,  ere  he  had  done  it  honor 
enono-h !  Ah,  if  we  would  but  pledge  ourselves  to 
truth  as  heartily  as  we  do  to  a  real  or  imaginary  mis- 
tress and  think  life  only  too  short  because  it  abridged 
our  time  of  service,  wliat  a  new  world  we  should  have  ! 
Most  men  pay  their  vows  to  her  in  youth,  and  go 
up  into  the  bustle  of  life,  with  her  kiss  warm  upon 
their  lips,  and  her  blessing  lying  upon  their  hearts  like 
dew;  but  the  world  has  lips  less  chary,  and  cheaper 
benedictions,  and  if  the  broken  troth-plight  with  their 
humble  village-mistress  comes  over  them  sometimes 
with  a  pang,  she  knows  how  to  blandish  away  remorse, 
and  persuades  them,  ere  old  age,  that  their  young 
enthusiasm  was  a  folly  and  an  indiscretion. 

^      JOHX. 

The  pillow  of  their  death-bed,  however,  hears  tlie 
name  of  the  old  love  again,  and  is  made  the  confidant 
of  some  bitter  tears  to  her  memory.  But  you  have 
given  me  your  daisy  snipped  short  off  by  the  head,  as 
a  child  does. 

PHILIP. 

"  Never  man  loved  more  hotly  in  his  life, 
And,  when  the  evening  cometh,  I  run  blithe, 
As  soon  as  e'er  the  sun  begins  to  west, 
For  fear  of  night,  darkness  so  hateth  she ; 
Her  cheer  is  in  the  brightness  utterly 
Of  the  glad  sun,  for  there  she  will  unclose. 
Ah,  that  I  have  not  English  rhyme  or  prose 
Enough  to  give  this  flower  its  praise  aright! 


My  busy  spirit,  that  still  thirsts  anew 

To  see  this  flower  so  young  and  fresh  of  hue, 


CHAUCER.  71 

Constrained  me  witli  such  a  great  desire, 

That  in  my  heart  1  yet  can  feel  its  lire, 

And  made  me  rise  before  the  peep  of  day, 

It  being  now  the  morning  first  of  May, 

With  glad  devotion  and  heart  full  of  dread, 

To  see  the  resurrection  from  tiie  dead 

Of  this  same  liower,  wiicn  it  sliould  unclose 

Against  tiie  sun  that  rose  as  red  as  the  rose 

W  hicii  in  the  breast  was  of  the  beast  that  day 

He  led  Agenor's  daughter  fair  away  ; 

And  down  upon  my  knees  I  set  me  riglit, 

To  greet  this  flower  fresh  as  best  1  might, 

Kneeling  alway  till  it  unclosed  was 

Among  the  tender,  sweet,  and  new-sprung  grass, 

That  was  with  blossoms  sweet  embroidered  all, 

In  which  methought  that  I  might,  day  by  day. 
Dwell  all  throughout  tlic  jolly  month  of  May, 
"VVitiiouten  sleep,  withouten  meat  or  drink: 
Adown  full  softly  I  began  to  sink. 
And,  leaning  on  my  elbow  and  my  side, 
Through  the  whole  day  I  shaped  me  to  abide. 
For  nothing  else^  and  1  shall  tell  no  lie, 
But  on  the  daisy  for  to  feed  mine  eye, 
That  has  good  reason  why  men  call  it  may 
The  daisy,  otherwise  the  eye  of  day. 
The  empress  and  the  flower  of  flowers  all: 
I  pray  to  (Jod  that  fair  may  it  befall, 
And  all  that  love  the  flowei-s  for  her  sake !" 

JOHN. 

Happy  flower,  to  have  received  the  homage  of 
Chaucer  and  Wordsworth  !  Happier,  to  have  been 
ever  the  playmate  and  favorite  of  childhood !  There 
is  a  true  flavor  of  piety  in  the  whole  of  the  passage 
you  have  read ;  for  he  that  loves  the  creature  has  made 
ready  a  shrine  for  the  Creator  in  his  heart.     The  leaf 


72  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

of  a  tree  lias  a  more  moving  exhortation  to  the  love  of 
God  written  upon  it  than  a  leaf  of  Taylor  or  Barrow. 

PHILIP. 

Piety  is  indifferent  whether  she  enters  at  the  eye  or 
the  ear.  There  is  none  of  the  senses  at  which  she  does 
not  knock  one  day  or  other.  The  Puritans  forgot  this, 
and  thrust  beauty  out  of  the  meeting-house  and 
slammed  the  door  in  her  face.  I  love  such  sensuality 
as  that  which  Chaucer  shows  in  his  love  of  nature. 
Surely,  God  did  not  give  us  these  fine  senses  as  so 
many  posterns  to  the  heart  for  the  Devil  to  enter  at. 
I  believe  that  he  has  endowed  us  with  no  faculty  but 
for  his  own  glory.  If  the  Devil  lias  got  false  keys  to 
them,  we  must  first  have  given  him  a  model  of  the 
wards  to  make  a  mould  by.  The  senses  can  do  nothing 
unless  the  soul  be  an  accomplice,  and,  in  whatever  the 
soul  does,  the  body  will  have  a  voice.  In  all  ages,  it 
has  been  deemed  a  Christian  virtue  to  persecute  the 
body.  Yet  persecution  is  a  soAver  of  dragon's  teeth, 
from  which  spring  armed  men  to  do  battle  against  her. 
We  have  driven  the  M-orld  and  the  flesh,  against  their 
wills,  into  a  league  with  the  Devil.  If  we  provided 
ourselves  with  half  as  many  arguments  for  loving  God 
as  we  have  against  forgetting  Ivim,  we  should  be  both 
wiser  and  better.  To  be  a  sensualist  in  a  certain  kind 
and  to  a  certain  degree  is  the  mark  of  a  ])ure  and 
youthful  nature.  To  be  able  to  keep  a  just  balance 
between  sense  and  spirit,  and  to  liave  the  soul  welcome 
frankly  all  the  delicious  impulses  which  flow  to  it  from 
without,  is  a  good  and  holy  thing.  But  it  must  wel- 
come them   as  the  endearments  of  a  wife,  not  of  a 


CHAUCER.  73 

harlot.  A  Dryad  and  a  Satyr  may  drink  out  of  the 
same  spring.  A  poet  must  be  as  sensitive  as  the  yield- 
ing air,  and  as  pure.  To  a  soul  which  is  truly  king 
of  itself,  and  not  a  prisoner  in  its  desolate  palace,  the 
senses  are  but  keepers  of  its  treasury,  and  all  beautiful 
things  pay  their  tribute  through  these,  and  not  to  them. 
If  they  are  allowed  to  squander  the  treasure  upon  their 
own  lusts,  the  subjects  turn  niggard  and  withhold  the 
supjilies. 

JOHX. 

All  things  that  make  us  happy  incline  us  also  to  be 
grateful,  and  I  would  rather  enlarge  than  lessen  the 
number  of  these.  INIorose  and  callous  recluses  have 
persuaded  men  that  religion  is  a  prude,  and  have  forced 
her  to  lengthen  her  face  and  contract  her  brows  to  suit 
the  character.  They  have  laid  out  a  gloomy  turnpike 
to  heaven,  upon  which  they  and  their  heirs  and  assigns 
are  privileged  to  levy  tolls,  and  have  set  up  guide- 
boards  to  make  us  believe  that  all  other  roads  lead  in 
quite  an  opposite  direction.  The  pleasanter  they  are, 
the  more  dangerous.  For  my  part,  I  am  satisfied  that 
I  am  upon  the  right  path  so  long  as  I  can  see  anything 
to  make  me  happier,  anything  to  make  me  love  man, 
and  therefore  God,  the  more.  God  is  not  far  from  that 
heart  to  which  man  is  near.  I  would  stamp  God's 
name,  and  not  Satan's,  upon  every  innocent  pleasure, 
upon  every  legitimate  gratification  of  sense;  and  God 
would  be  the  better  served  for  it.  In  what  has  Satan 
deserved  so  well  of  us  that  we  should  set  aside  such 
first-fruits  for  him  ?  Christianity  differs  not  more 
widelv  from  Plato  than  from  the  Puritans. 


74  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

PHILIP. 

The  churcli  needs  reforming  now  as  much  as  in 
Luther's  time,  and  sells  her  indulgences  as  readily. 
There  are  altars  to  which  the  slaveholder  is  admitted, 
while  the  Unitarian  Avould  be  put  forth  as  unclean.  If 
it  be  God's  altar,  both  have  a  right  there, — the  sinner 
most  of  all, — but  let  him  not  go  uurebuked.  We  hire 
our  religion  by  the  quarter,  and  if  it  tell  any  disagree- 
able truths,  we  dismiss  it,  for  we  did  not  pay  it  for  such 
service  as  this.  Christ  scourged  the  sellers  of  doves 
out  of  the  temple ;  we  invite  the  sellers  of  men  and 
women  in.  We  have  few  such  preachers  now  as 
Nathan  was.  They  preach  against  sin  in  the  abstract, 
shooting  their  arrows  into  the  woundless  air.  Let  sin 
wrap  itself  in  superfine  broadcloth,  and  put  its  name  on 
charitable  subscription-papers,  and  it  is  safe.  Mammon 
gets  easy  absolution  by  contributing  to  the  missionary 
fund.  He  knows  very  well  that  the  conversion  of  the 
heathen  to  our  modern  Christianity  is  the  first  step 
toward  deducing  them  into  zealous  loyalty  to  himself. 
We  bandy  compliments  with  him  instead  of  saying 
sternly,  "  Get  thee  behind  me  ! "  The  Devil  might 
listen  to  some  preaching  I  have  heard  without  getting 
his  appetite  spoiled.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  time  and 
money  expended  to  make  men  believe  that  this  one  or 
that  one  will  be  damned,  and  to  scare  or  wheedle  them 
into  good  Calvinists  or  Episcopalians ;  but  very  little 
pains  is  taken  to  make  them  good  Christians, 

JOHN. 

You  use  plain  words. 


CHA  UCER.  75 

PHILIP. 

Pluiu  words  are  best.  Truth  wants  no  veil ;  the 
cliastity  and  beauty  of  her  countenance  are  defence 
enougli  against  all  lewd  eyes.  Falsehood,  only,  needs 
to  hide  her  face;  for  that,  unseen,  she  has  learned  so 
well  to  mimic  the  gait  and  feign  the  voice  of  Truth  as 
to  counterfeit  her  with  ease  and  safety.  Our  tono-ue 
has  become  so  courtly  and  polite,  as  Avell-nigh  to  have 
forgotten  that  it  has  also  words  befitting  indignation 
and  reproof.  Some  thoughts  demand  the  utmost  swell 
and  voluptuousness  of  language ;  they  should  float  like 
Aphrodite  upborne  on  a  summer  ocean.  For  others, 
the  words  should  be  jagged  and  immitigable  and 
abrupt  as  the  rocks  upon  the  shore.  Let  the  feeling 
of  the  moment  choose.  If  melody  be  needed,  the 
chance  shell  of  the  tortoise  shall  become  a  lyre  which 
Apollo  might  sigh  for. 

JOHN. 

It  has  never  been  a  safe  thing  to  breathe  a  whisper 
against  the  church,  least  of  all  in  this  country,  where 
it  has  no  prop  from  the  state,  but  is  founded  only  on 
the  love,  or,  if  you  will  have  it  so,  the  prejudices  of 
the  people.  Religion  has  come  to  be  esteemed  synonyJ 
mous  with  the  church  ;  there  are  few  minds  clear 
enough  to  separate  it  from  the  building  erected  for  its 
convenience  and  its  shelter.  It  is  this  which  has  made 
our  Christianity  external,  a  task-ceremony  to  be  gone 
through  with,  and  not  a  principle  of  life  itself.  The 
church  has  been  looked  on  too  much  in  the  light  of  a 
machine,  which  only  needs  a  little  oil,  now  and  then, 


76  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

on  its  joints  and  axles,  to  make  it  run  glibly  and  per- 
form all  its  functions  without  grating  or  creaking. 
Nothing  that  we  can  say  will  be  of  much  service.  The 
reformers  must  come  from  her  own  bosom ;  and  there 
are  many  devout  souls  among  her  priests  now  who 
would  lay  down  their  lives  to  purify  her.  The  names 
of  infidel  and  heretic  are  the  sail  henitos  in  which  we 
dress  offenders  in  the  nineteenth  century,  and  a  bigoted 
public  opinion  furnishes  the  fagots  and  applies  the 
match !  The  very  cross  itself,  to  which  the  sacred 
right  of  private  judgment  fled  for  sanctuary,  has  been 
turned  into  a  whipping-post.  Doubtless,  there  are  no 
nations  on  the  earth  so  wicked  as  those  which  profess 
Christianity ;  and  the  blame  may  be  laid  in  great 
measure  at  the  door  of  the  church,  which  has  always 
sought  temporal  power,  and  has  chosen  rather  to  lean 
upon  the  arm  of  flesh  than  upon  that  of  God.  The 
church  has  corrupted  Christianity.  She  has  decked 
her  person  and  embroidered  her  garments  with  the 
spoils  of  pagan  altars,  and  has  built  her  temples  of 
blocks  which  paganism  had  squared  ready  to  her 
hand.  We  are  still  Huns  and  Vandals,  and  Saxons 
and  Celts,  at  heart.  AVe  have  carved  a  cross  U])on  our 
altars,  but  the  smoke  of  our  sacrifice  goes  up  to  Thor 
and  Odin  still.  Lately  I  read  in  the  newspapei^s  a 
toast  given  at  a  military  festival,  by  one  of  those  who 
claim  to  be  the  earthly  representatives  of  the  Prince  of 
Peace.  England  and  France  send  out  the  cannon  and 
the  bayonet,  upon  missionary  enterprises,  to  India  and 
Africa,  and  our  modern  Eliots  and  Brai nerds  among 
the  red  men  are  of  the  same  persuasive  metal. 


CHA  UCER.  77 

PHILIP. 

Well,  well,  let  us  hope  for  change.  There  are  signs 
of  it ;  there  has  been  a  growling  of  thunder  round  the 
horizon  for  many  days.  We  are  like  the  people  iu 
countries  subject  to  earthquakes,  who  crowd  into  the 
churches  for  safety,  but  lind  that  their  sacred  walls  are 
as  fragile  as  other  works  of  human  hands.  Nay,  the 
very  massiveness  of  their  architecture  makes  their  de- 
struction more  sudden,  and  their  fall  more  dangerous. 
You  and  I  have  become  convinced  of  this.  Both  of 
us,  having  certain  reforms  at  lieart,  and  believing  them 
to  be  of  vital  interest  to  mankind,  turned  first  to  the 
church  as  the  nearest  helper  under  God.  We  have 
been  disappointed.  Let  us  not  waste  our  time  in 
throwing  stones  at  its  insensible  doors.  As  you  have 
said,  the  reformers  must  come  from  within.  The 
prejudice  of  position  is  so  strong  that  all  her  servants 
will  unite  against  an  exoteric  assailant,  melting  up,  if 
need  be,  the  sacred  vessels  for  bullets,  and  using  tlie 
leaves  of  the  holy  book  itself  for  wadding.  But  I 
will  never  enter  a  church  from  wiiich  a  prayer  goes  up 
for  the  prosperous  only,  or  for  the  unfortunate  among 
the  oppressors,  and  not  for  the  oppressed  and  fallen ; 
as  if  God  had  ordained  our  pride  of  caste  and  our  dis- 
tinctions of  color,  and  as  if  Christ  had  forgotten  those 
that  are  in  bonds.  We  are  bid  to  imitate  God ;  let  us 
in  this  also  follow  his  example,  whose  only  revenge 
upon  error  is  the  giving  success  to  truth,  and  but  strive 
more  cheerfully  for  the  triumjili  of  what  we  believe  to 
be  right.  Let  us,  above  all  things,  imitate  lum  iu 
ascribing  what  we  see  of  wrong-doing  to  blindness  and 


78  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

error,  rather  than  to  wilful  sin.  The  Devil  loves  noth- 
ing better  than  the  intolerance  of  reformers,  and  dreads 
nothing  so  much  as  their  charity  and  patience.  The 
scourge  is  better  upon  our  backs  than  in  our  hands. 

JOHN. 

When  the  air  grows  thick  and  heavy,  and  the  clouds 
gather  in  the  moral  atmosphere,  the  tall  steeples  of  the 
church  are  apt  to  attract  the  lightning  first.  Its  pride 
and  love  of  high  places  are  the  most  fatal  of  conduc- 
tors. That  small  upper  room,  in  which  the  disciples 
were  first  gathered,  would  always  be  safe  enough. 

PHILIP. 

We  have  wandered  too  far  among  these  thorns  and 
briers ;  let  us  come  back  to  smoother  ground.  There 
are  one  or  two  passages  in  the  "  Legend  of  Good 
Women  "  which  I  will  read  to  you.  My  translations 
are  bald  enough,  but  I  adhere  as  closely  as  I  can  to  the 
very  words  of  my  author.  The  number  of  accented 
syllables  and  terminations  used  in  Chaucer's  time  ren- 
ders any  translation  from  his  poems  necessarily  less 
compact  and  precise  than  the  original.  I  must  often, 
too,  lose  much  of  the  harmony  of  the  verse;  but  I 
shall  not  try  to  conciliate  your  ear  at  the  expense  of 
faithfulness.  Here  is  a  fragment  from  his  story  of 
Thisbe.     Pyramus  has  found  her  bloody  wimple. 

"  He  smote  him  to  the  heart ; 
The  blood  out  of  the  wound  as  broad  did  start 
As  water  when  the  conduit  broken  is. 
Now  Thisbe,  who  knew  nothing  yet  of  this, 
But  sitting  in  her  dread,  bethought  her  thus: 
*  If  it  so  fall  out  that  my  Pyramus 


CHA  UCER.  79 

Have  hastened  hither  and  may  me  not  find, 

He  may  esteem  me  false  or  eke  unkind.' 
And  out  she  comes,  and  after  him  espies 

Both  witli  her  anxious  heart  and  witli  her  eyes, 

And  thought,  'Now  will  I  tell  him  my  distress, 

For  fear  of  death  and  of  the  lioness.' 

And,  at  the  last,  her  lover  hath  she  found, 

Abeating  with  his  heels  upon  tlie  ground, 

All  bloody ;  and  therewith  she  back  doth  start, 

And  like  the  waves  to  heave  began  lier  heart. 

And,  in  a  moment,  pale  as  box  she  grew ; 

Then  looking  steadily,  right  well  she  knew 

That  it  was  Pyramus,  her  own  heart's  dear. 
"  Who  could  write  ever  what  a  deadly  cheer 

Hath  Thisbe  now,  and  how  her  hair  she  rent, 

And  how  herself  began  she  to  torment, 

And  how  she  lies  and  swoons  upon  the  ground, 

And  how  with  tears  she  filled  full  his  wound. 

How  clippeth  she  the  blood-red  corse,  alas! 

How  doth  the  woful  Thisbe  in  this  case ! 

How  kisseth  she  his  frosty  mouth  so  cold  ! 

'  Who  hath  done  this  ?     O,  who  hath  been  so  bold, 

To  slay  my  love  ?     O,  speak,  my  Pyramus ! 

I  am  thy  Thisbe  that  calleth  thee  thus!' 

And  therewithal  she  lifted  up  his  head 

This  woful  man,  who  was  not  wholly  dead. 

Hearing  that  one  the  name  of  Thisbe  cries, 
On  her  cast  up  his  heavy,  deadly  eves. 
Then  down  again,  and  yielded  up  the  ghost. 
Thisbe  rose  up  withouten  noise  or  boast, 
And  saw  her  wimple  and  his  empty  sheath. 
And  eke  his  sword  that  him  hath  done  to  death  ; 
Then  spake  she  thus:  'My  woful  hand,'  quoth  she, 
'  Is  strong  enough  in  such  a  work  for  me  ; 
For  love  will  give  me  strength  and  hardiness 
To  make  my  wound  full  large  enough,  I  guess. 
I  will  thee  follow  dead,  and  I  will  be 
Partaker  of  the  death  I  caused,'  quoth  she  ; 
'And  although  nothing  but  the  death  could  ever 
Have  force  enough  thyself  and  me  to  sever, 


80  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

Thou  shalt  no  more  be  parted  now  from  me, 
Than  from  thy  death ;  for  1  will  follow  thee.'" 

In  choosing  my  extracts,  I  have  endeavored  to  avoid 
those  which  have  ah-eady  been  modernized  by  others. 
A  vohime  was  published  in  London,  three  or  four 
years  ago,  by  R.  H.  Home,  containing  new  versions  of 
some  of  the  best  of  Chaucer's  poems.  Many  of  these 
are  excellent,  those  by  Wordsworth  especially.  The 
original  plan  seems  to  have  been  to  publish  other  vol- 
umes, till  a  complete  translation  should  be  accom- 
plished. As  no  continuation  has  appeared,  we  must 
presume  that  the  English  have  not  yet  awakened  to  the 
merits  of  their  first  great  poet.  Mr.  Charles  Cowden 
Clarke  deserves  well  of  the  lovers  of  our  language  for 
his  excellent  little  volumes,  entitled  "  The  Riches  of 
Chaucer,"  which  contain  all  the  better  parts  of  his 
poems. 

JOHN. 

He  has  another  claim  upon  our  esteem  also,  as  hav- 
ino;  been  the  earliest  friend  and  admirer  of  Keats. 

PHILIP. 

In  the  next  legend,  of  Dido,  there  are  a  few  lines 
which  I  must  read  you  for  their  delightful  freshness 
and  spirit. 

"  Upon  a  lowly  palfrey,  paper-white. 
With  saddle  red,  embroidered  with  delight, 
Of  gold  the  bars,  upward  embossed  high. 
Sat  Dido,  rough  with  gold  and  jewelry; 
And  she  is  fair  iis  is  the  bright  to-morrow. 
That  healeth  sick  folk  of  the  night's  long  sorrow. 
Upon  a  courser,  startling  as  the  tire, 
Though  men  might  turn  him  with  a  little  wire, 
J2neas  sat,  like  Phcebus." 


CHA  UCER.  81 

JOHN. 

How  delicious  is  that  coinpreliensive  description  of 
Dido's  beauty !  It  fills  the  heart  at  once  with  a  thou- 
sand images  and  forewarnings  of  delight,  as  the  sight 
of  beauty  itself  does. 

PHILIP. 

Yes,  beauty  seldom  affects  us  so  much  in  the  present, 
as  by  a  prophecy  of  some  yet  unfulfilled  satisfaction 
which  she  has  in  store  for  us.  She  seems  to  beckon  us 
ever  into  yet  more  Elysian  realms  of  quiet  and  serenity, 
and  is  but  the  guide  to  something  higher  and  beyond. 

JOHN. 

"  Startling  as  the  fire "  giv^es  ns  such  a  picture  as 
inspires  and  dilates  the  imagination.  Shakespeare's 
famous  description  of  a  horse,  in  his  "  Venus  and 
Adonis,"  with  all  its  minuteness,  does  not  satisfy  me  as 
well  as  this.  It  seems  rather  like  the  fine  frenzy  of  an 
inspired  jockey.  In  such  slight  and  ordinary  touches 
the  power  of  the  poet  is  best  shown.  A  great  subject 
may  lift  up  a  common  and  even  earthy  mind,  and  give 
it  an  inspiring  breadth  of  view.  But  it  is  only  from 
isolated  peaks  and  summits,  in  climbing  to  which  the 
enthusiasm  wearies  and  flags.  The  strength  of  a  great 
poet  is  in  his  own  magnificent  eye,  which  borrows  not 
from  without,  but  lends 'whatever  it  looks  on  a  dignity 
and  an  untiring  grace  from  within.  Ever}'^  word  of 
his  is  like  a  new-created  star  or  flower,  or  a  new-found 
one,  and  sets  all  our  nature  astir,  as  the  spring  wakes 
and  enlivens  the  sluggish  earth.  The  heart  grows 
green  again  and  blossoms ;  the  old  tendrils  of  childish 

6 


82  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

sympathy  become  as  supple  and  delicate  as  ever,  aud, 
reaching  out,  grasp  and  cling  to  whatever  they  first 
chance  to  touch. 

PHILIP. 

You  will  never  describe  it.  We  can  never  say  why 
Ave  love,  but  only  that  we  love.  The  heart  is  ready 
enough  at  feigning  excuses  for  all  that  it  does  or 
imagines  of  wrong ;  but  ask  it  to  give  a  reason  for  any 
of  its  beautiful  and  divine  motions,  and  it  can  only 
look  upward  and  be  dumb.  When  we  are  in  the  right, 
we  can  never  reason,  but  only  assert.  A  weak  cause 
generally  has  the  best  in  an  argument.  As  you  have 
been  so  much  struck  with  some  isolated  expressions 
used  by  Chaucer,  I  will  glean  a  fevv'  others  for  you.  It 
is  a  pity  to  knock  the  jewels  out  of  their  setting,  but 
they  will  shine  notwithstanding.  Here  is  a  passage, 
from  "  The  Knight's  Tale,"  describing  the  Temple  of 
Mars. 

"  A  forest  first  was  painted  on  the  wall, 
In  which  there  dwells  nor  man  nor  beast  at  all, 
With  trees  all  knotty,  knarry,  barren,  old, 
With  sharp,  dead  limbs  and  hideous  to  behold, 
Through  which  ran  a  rumble  and  a  sough, 
As  if  the  wind  would  shatter  every  bough." 

There  is  no  such  desolation  as  this  in  all  Lord 
Byron's  nightmare  "  Darkness." 

"  There  saw  I  first  the  dark  imagining 
Of  Felony  and  all  the  compassing ; 
The  cruel  ire,  as  any  coal  aglow ; 
The  pickpurse,  and  the  palefaced  dread  also ; 
The  smiler  with  the  knife  under  the  cloak  ; 
The  stables  burning  in  the  ink-black  smoke ; 


CHA  UCER  83 

The  treason  of  .the  murderiiij^  in  the  bed  ; 
The  open  war  whh  wounds  all  ovcrbltd  ; 
Contest  with  bloody  knife  and  sharp  meniice; 
And  full  of  ill  sounds  was  that  sorry  place. 
The  slayer  of  himself,  too,  saw  I  there, 
His  thick  heart's  blood  hath  bathed  all  his  hair, 
The  nail  fast-driven  through  the  hair  beside, 
The  cold  death  with  the  niouth  all  gaping  wide: 
And  in  the  temple's  midst  there  sat  Mischance, 
AVith  pain  at  heart  and  sorry  countenance; 
There  saw  I  madness,  laughing  in  his  rage; 
Armed  complaint,  outcries,  and  fierce  outrage; 
The  carrion  in  the  bush  with  throat  cut  through ; 
A  thousand  slain  whom  sickness  never  slew  ; 
The  tyrant  with  the  prey  his  force  had  reft ; 
The  town  destroyed,  that  there  was  nothing  left ; 
There  burned  the  ships  that  danced  upon  the  main; 
There  lay  the  hunter  by  the  wild  bears  slain ; 
The  sow  tearing  the  child  right  in  the  cradle ; 
The  cook  scalded,  in  spite  of  his  long  ladle ; 
Kaught  was  forgot  of  all  the  woes  of  war, 
The  charioteer,  o'erridden  by  his  car, 
Under  the  wheel  full  low  was  cast  adown. 
There  also  were,  of  Mars'  division, 
The  armorer,  the  bowyer,  and  the  smith, 
"Who  forgeth  the  sharp  swords  upon  his  stith ; 
And,  painted  in  a  tower  that  rose  on  high, 
Conquest  I  saw,  that  sat  in  sovereignty, 
AVhile  that  keen  blade  did  waver  o'er  his  head, 
Ahanging  by  a  slender  strand  of  thread.'* 

Mars  is  described  as  standiug  upon  a  chariot, — 

*  ""A  wolf  there  stood  before  him  at  his  feet, 
With  fire-red  eyes,  and  of  a  man  did  eat." 

Yoti  will  hardly  find  in  Spenser  a  catalogue  like 
this,  so  grim  and  so  straightforward.  Here  is  no 
flourish ;  but  Chaucer  only  tells  us,  or  tries  to  tell  us, 


84  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

what  he  saw.    It  is  abrupt  and  disjointed,  as  if -recalled 
piecemeal  by  an  effort  of  memoiy. 

JOHN. 

I  do  not  overlike  personifications,  as  they  are  called, 
yet  I  shall  not  soon  forget  this  one  of  Conquest,  sitting 
under  the  sword  of  Damocles.  But  what  have  the 
sow,  and  the  cook  with  his  long  ladle,  to  do  in  the 
picture  ? 

PHILIP. 

Tyrwhitt  is  as  much  puzzled  as  you,  but  hazards  a 
conjecture  that  Chaucer  was  having  a  sly  laugh  at  the 
tedious  particularity  of  the  Romancers.  But  I  hardly 
think  so,  since  to  me  this  couplet  adds  a  certain  tang 
and  pungency  to  the  taste  of  the  whole  passage.  It 
gives  it  reality,  and  makes  it  seem  less  like  a  work  of 
the  imagination.  '  We  are  loath  to  fancy  so  dainty  a 
faculty  as  the  imagination  sweeping  the  greasy  floor  of 
the  kitchen  with  her  majestic  robes,  and  so  are  fain  to 
believe  that  the  poet  is  merely  giving  us  a  literal  ac- 
count of  what  he  saw.  r 

JOHN. 

You  have  made  me  a  little  more  liberal  in  these 
matters  of  taste  than  I  once  was.  The  sow  eating  the 
child,  which  the  nurse  has  left  deserted  in  the  cradle, 
gives  me  as  intense  an  idea  of  the  liorror  of  war  and 
of  the  selfishness  which  danger  inculcates,  as  it  is  pos- 
sible to  conceive.  Horror  is  poetical.  It  is  the  gin 
and  opium  of  the  Muse ;  the  excitement  and  thrill  are 
not  unpleasing,  for  once  or  twice.  But  a  ludicrous 
idea  is  inadmissible;    it  must  smooth  the  grin  and 


CHAUCER.  85 

smirk  off  its  face,  before  it  can  get  entrance  into  the 
silent  and  serene  temple  of  song. 

PHILIP. 

Ay,  but  there  is  no  court-dress  there.  Words  and 
phrases  are  vulgar  or  trivial,  according  to  the  ear  on 
which  they  fall.  I  confess  that  I  have  an  ear  that  will 
gladly  entertain  anything  that  comes  plainly  and  un- 
masked, and  does  not  impose  itself  as  something  supe- 
rior to  what  it  truly  is.  There  are  Nimrods  enough  of 
words  and  syllables,  without  my  joining  in  the  hunt. 
The  Muse  can  breathe  as  august  melodies  through  an 
oaten  straw  as  she  can  win  from  Apollo's  lute.  Chau- 
cer is  never  very  choice  in  his  language  for  the  mere 
sake  of  being  so.  He  is  so  rich  that  he  can  afford  a 
plain  simpleness  which  would  be  the  badge  of  beggary 
in  a  poorer  man.  He  is  plain  and  blunt,  and  speaks 
to  the  point.  He  thrusts  his  foot  remorselessly  through 
the  gossamers  of  sentimental  fancy,  though  he  might 
have  spared  them  for  their  making  the  dew  of  heaven 
more  visible.     When  Arcite  is  dead, 

" '  Why  wouldest  thou  be  dead,'  the  women  cry, 
That  haddest  gold  enough,  and  Emily  ? ' " 

"  That  haddcd  gold  enough — and  Emily."  See  how 
the  actual  life,  the  life  of  debtor  and  creditor,  of  the 
butcher  and  baker,  intrudes  itself  upon  the  life  of  ro- 
mance, nay,  takes  precedence  of  it  in  the  mind  of  this 
unartificial  man.  The  means  first,  be  they  never  so 
humble  and  prosaic ;  and  then  the  poetic  end,  which 
casts  backward  a  lustre  and  a  glory  upon  them.  This 
simplicity  of  his  reminds  me  of  Homer,  who  gives  a 


86  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

bill  of  fare  of  all  the  feasts,  as  one  whose  calling  had 
made  him  sensible  of  the  merits  of  such  delicates  by 
their  infrequency. 

In  the  "  Pardoner's  Tale  "  there  is  a  most  graphic 
simile,  which  modern  taste  would  probably  censure  as 
deficient  in  dignity.  The  Pardoner  is  describing  his 
style  of  preaching. 

"  Then  do  I  preach  as  ye  have  heard  before, 
And  tell  a  hundred  idle  stories  more ; 
Then  do  I  pain  me  to  stretch  forth  my  neck, 
And  east  and  west  upon  the  people  I  beck, 

As  doth  a  dove  sitting  upon  a  barn." 

Here  is  another  specimen  of  his  simplicity,  from  the 
third  book  of  his  "  Troilus  and  Creseide." 

"  Consider  now  if  they  be  not  to  blame, 
This  kind  of  folk,— what  shall  I  call  them,  what? — 
That  boast  of  women's  favors,  and  by  name, 
Who  yet  have  granted  them  nor  this  nor  that, 
Nor  think  more  of  them  than  of  my  old  hat." 

And,  a  little  further  on, 

"  But  if  a  fool  were  in  a  jealous  rage, 
I  would  not  set  Ai.s  sorrow  at  a  mite." 

Speaking  of  oracles,  Paudarus  says, 

"  As  for  Apollo,  and  liis  servants'  laws. 
Or  oracles,  they  are  not  worth  three  straws; 
For  the  gods  speak  in  amphibologies, 
And  for  one  truth  they  tell  us  twenty  lies." 

Describing  Cressid,  too,  his  frankness  creeps  out : 

"  Somewhat  too  low  might  Cressid's  stature  be. 
But  for  her  shape  and  face,  and  eke  her  cheer, 


CIIA  UCER.  87 

Creature  tliere  never  was  more  fair  than  she ; 
And  oftentimes  her  manner  was,  to  appear 
With  all  her  hair  hanging  in  tresses  clear 
Down  by  her  collar  o'er  her  neck  behind, 
Which  with  a  thread  of  gold  she  would  iipbiiid. 
And,  savinrj  that  her  brows  were  joined  too  near, 
There  was  no  lack  in  aught  I  can  espy." 

JOHN. 
Chaucer  is  as  close  and  determined  an  imitator  of 
nature  as  Poussin,  who  used  to  bring  home  stones  and 
moss  in  his  handkerchief,  in  order  to  paint  them  ex- 
actly. Such  scrupulous  honesty  betokens  the  true 
artist,  who  is  a  mathematician  in  his  details,  and  only 
lays  claim  to  the  title  of  creator  by  his  fresh  and  beau- 
tiful combinations. 

PHILIP. 

Now  let  me  glean  a  few  striking  expressions  which 
you  cannot  but  admire.  When  Cressid  was  carried  to 
the  Grecian  camp,  she  had  promised  Troilus  to  steal 
back  to  him  upon  a  certain  evening,  and  for  some  time 
clings  to  her  promise.  But  Chaucer  says,  that,  ere  two 
full  months,  the  thought  of  Troilus  and  Troy 

"  Throughout  her  heart  shall  knotless  slide." 

We  never  feel  the  whole  bitterness  of  a  sorrow  at  the 
first  blow.  It  is  after  we  have  recovered  from  the 
sudden  shock  of  it,  and  the  imagination  has  leisure  to 
concern  itself  with  details,  that  we  know  its  whole 
depth  and  breadth.  Then  we  find  that  the  little  cloud, 
no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  has  spread  itself  over  our 
whole  heaven,  Chaucer  has  hinted  at  this  in  what  he 
says  of  Troilus. 


88  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

"  And,  as  in  winter,  when  the  leaves  are  reft, 
Each  after  other,  till  the  trees  are  bare, 
So  that  there  are  but  bark  and  branches  left, 
So  Troilus,  bereft  of  each  welfare, 
Lies  bounden  in  the  ugly  bark  of  care." 

"When  Troilus  is  first  brought  to  an  interview  with 
Cressid,  Paudarus 

"  Drew  him  to  the  fire, 
And  by  that  light  beheld  his  countenance, 
As  't  were  to  look  upon  an  old  romance." 

JOHN. 

That  last  is  exquisite.  The  eager  flush  of  love,  and 
the  warm,  flickering  light  of  the  fire  upon  Troilus's 
face,  scarcely  more  wavering  and  uncertain  than  the 
expression  there, — the  whole  picture,  in  short,  seems 
like  an  old  romance  with  its  illuminated  borders  and 
capitals,  and  its  stories  of  love  and  sorrow.  You  will 
not  easily  find  me  another  comparison  like  this. 

PHILIP. 

At  least  here  is  one  that  touches  me  more.  It  is  in 
"  The  Complaint  of  Annelida,"  who  has  been  deserted 
by  the  "  false  Arcite."     She  says, 

"  Arcite  hath  home  away  the  key 
OJ  all  viy  world,  and  my  good  hap  to  come." 

There  is  something  very  pathetic  in  this. 

JOHN. 

Yes.  As  if  she  stood  in  sight  of  the  fair  maiden 
world  she  had  left  for  the  sake  of  Arcite,  and  but  just 
ou  the  outside  of  happiness,  yet  was  irrevocably  locked 
out. 


CHA  UCER.  89 

PHILIP. 

In  "  The  Book  of  the  Duchess  "  there  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  portraits  of  a  woraan  that  Avere  ever 
drawn.  Full  of  life  it  is,  aud  of  graceful  health,  with 
no  romantic  hectic,  or  sentimental  languish.  It  is  such 
a  figure  as  you  would  never  look  for  in  a  ball-room, 
but  miglit  expect  to  meet  in  the  dewy  woods,  just  after 
sunrise,  when  you  were  hunting  for  late  violets.  The 
lover,  who  tells  Chaucer  of  her,  says, 

"  I  was  caught 
So  suddenly,  that  I  ne'ertook 
Counsel  of  aught  but  of  her  look, 
And  of  my  heart :  for  her  kind  eyes 
So  gladly  on  my  heart  did  rise, 
That  instantly  my  inmost  thought 
Said  it  were  better  to  serve  her  for  naught, 
Than  with  another  to  be  well." 

It  is  too  long  for  me  to  read  you  the  whole  of  it,  but 
I  will  gladden  your  heart  with  a  feAv  lines  here  and 
there.  I  shall  hardly  more  than  modernize  the  words. 
I  should  spoil  it  w'ere  I  to  attempt  to  translate  it  into 
smooth  verses.     See  how  joyfully  it  opens. 

"  I  saw  her  dance  so  comely, 
Carol  and  sing  so  sweetly. 
Laugh  and  play  so  womanly. 
And  look  so  debonairly, 
So  goodly  speak,  and  so  friendly, 
That,  certes,  I  trow  that  nevermore 
Was  seen  so  blissful  a  treasore  ; 
For  every  hair  upon  her  head. 
Sooth  to  say,  it  was  not  red, 
And  neither  yellow  nor  brown  it  was, 
Methought  most  like  to  gold  it  was ; 


90  SECOl^D  CONVERSATION. 

And  such  eyes  my  lady  had, 
Debonair,  good,  steady,  and  glad, 
Simple,  of  good  size,  not  too  wide  ; 
And  then  her  look  was  not  aside, 
Nor  wandering,  but  so  right  and  true, 
That,  certes,  it  took  up  and  drew 
All  that  upon  her  'gan  behold. 

Even  when  most  full  of  joy  was  she, 
She  never  could  look  foolishly, 
Kor  wildly,  even  when  she  played ; 
But  ever,  methought,  her  kind  eyes  said, 
^  Par  fay,  my  wrath  is  all  forgiven.' 

I  have  not  wit  that  can  suffice 
Her  beauty  to  speak  properly, 
But  thus  much  I  dare  say,  that  she 
Was  white,  fresh,  ruddy,  and  lively-hued, 
And  every  day  her  beauty  newed. 


And  thereto  she  could  so  well  play 
"Whate'er  she  list,  that  I  dare  say 
That  she  was  like  a  torch-flame  bright, 
Whence  every  man  can  take  of  light 
Enough,  and  it  hath  never  the  less 
Of  lustre  and  of  comeliness. 

She  had  a  wit  so  general. 
So  whole-inclined  to  all  good. 
That  it  was  ever  set  by  the  rood, 
To  swell  the  store  of  happiness ; 
Moreover,  I  ne'er  saw  one-less 
Harmfiil  than  she  to  say  or  do ; 
I  say  not  that  she  did  not  know 
What  evil  was,  or  else  had  she 
Known  naught  of  good,  as  seems  to  me. 

INIethought  all  fellowship  was  naked 
AVithout  her,  having  seen  her  once, 
As  is  a  crown  without  the  stones." 


CHAUCER.  91 

JOHN. 

It  is  like  sunshine.  It  awakens  all  the  dearest  and 
sweetest  reeollections  of  the  heart.  The  best  poetry 
always  comes  to  us  leading  by  the  hand  the  holy  asso- 
ciations and  tear-strengthened  aspirings  of  youth,  as 
Vokminia  brought  to  Coriolanus  his  little  children,  to 
plead  reproachfully  with  us,  to  be  tender,  and  meek, 
and  patient.  "  Chevy  Chase  "  was  like  the  blast  of  a 
trumpet  to  Sir  Philip  Sydney ;  the  passages  I  love  in 
the  poets  give  me  back  an  hour  of  childhood,  and  are 
like  a  mother's  voice  to  me.  They  arc  as  solemn  as  the 
rustle  of  the  Bible-leaves  in  the  old  family-prayers. 
The  noisy  ocean  of  life  hushes,  and  slides  up  his  beach 
with  a  soothing  and  slumberous  ripple.  The  earth  be- 
comes secluded  and  private  to  me  as  in  childhood,  when 
it  seemed  but  a  little  meadow-green,  guarded  all  round 
with  trees,  for  me  to  pick  flowers  in  ;  a  play-room, 
whose  sole  proprietor  and  manager  I  was.  When 
Chaucer  wrote  this  poem,  he  must  have  been  musing 
of  his  early  love.  How  could  critic  ever  grow"  so 
leathern-hearted  as  to  speak  sneeringly  of  love-verses  ?, 

PHILIP. 

I  cannot  guess.  They  are  often  blamed  for  their 
egoism,  when,  in  fact,  they  are  the  least  egoistical  of  all 
writing.  If  self  is  anywhere  forgotten,  it  is  in  these. 
They  are  all  hymns  to  the  supreme  beauty.  In  all  of 
them  the  lover  would  only  remind  the  beloved  that 
their  trysting-place  is  at  the  foot  of  that  divine  altar. 
The  one  I  have  just  read  a  fragment  of  reminds  me  of 
a  passage  in  George  AVither's  "  Philarete,"  which,  both 


92  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

in  metre  and  expression,  is  brimful  of  the  most  joyous 
simplicity  and  extravagant  fancy.  All  through  it  the 
poet's  heart  seems  to  dance  for  glee,  like  a  child.  A 
truly  Arcadian  sunshine  broods  over  it.  I  could  think 
it  written  before  such  a  thing  as  sorrow  was  invented. 
It  is  one  of  those  sweet  nooks  into  which  the  mind  can 
withdraw  from  the  turmoil  and  hurry  of  life,  and  play 
with  the  grass  and  flowers  in  ungirt  ease. 

Let  me  read  you  now,  from  the  "  Legend  of  Cleo- 
patra," something  of  a  very  different  kind.  It  is  a 
bustling  description  of  a  sea-fight. 

"  And  in  the  middle  sea  they  chanced  to  meet ; 
Up  goes  the  trump ;  with  shots  and  shouts  they  greet, 
And  hasten  them  to  set  on  with  the  sun ; 
With  grisly  sound  outgoeth  the  great  gun, 
And  heartily  they  hurtle  in  all  at  once ; 
And  from  the  top  down  tumble  the  great  stones ; 
In  go  the  grappling-irons  full  of  crooks ; 
Among  the  thick  ropes  run  the  shearing-hooks ; 
In  with  the  pole-axe  presseth  he  and  he ; 
Behind  the  mast  beginneth  he  to  flee, 
And  out  again,  and  overboard  him  drives  ; 
Through  this  one's  side  the  ragged  spear-point  rives; 
This  rends  the  sail  with  sharp  hooks  like  a  scythe, 
This  brings  the  cup  and  biddeth  them  be  blithe. 
This  on  the  hatches  poureth  slippery  pease, 
With  pots  of  lime  together  struggle  these. 
And  thus  the  whole  long  day  in  fight  they  spend." 

In  "  The  Knight's  Tale  "  there  is  another  very  much 
like  this,  except  that  tlie  scene  is  on  land. 

"  The  heralds  leave  their  pricking  up  and  down. 
And  rings  the  trumpet  loud  and  claidon; 
There  is  no  more  to  say,  but,  east  and  west, 
Down  go  the  lances  to  their  stubborn  rest, 


CIU  UCER.  93 

Plunges  the  sharp  spur  in  the  horse's  side, 
Now  see  we  wlio  can  joust  and  who  can  ride ; 
There  shiver  shafts  upon  the  bucklers  thick, 
And  through  the  heart  is  felt  the  deadly  prick; 
Up  spi-iug  the  hmces  twenty  feet  in  height, 
Out  go  tlie  sword-bkules  as  the  silver  briglit ; 
Tlie  hehnets  tough  they  hew  and  liack  and  shred, 
Out  bursts  the  heart's  blood  in  stern  torrents  red ; 
"With  mighty  maces  through  the  bones  tliey  crush. 
And  'mid  the  thickest  of  the  throng  'gin  rush ; 
There  stumble  the  strong  steeds,  and  down  goes  all, 
And  under  foot  they  roll  as  doth  a  ball ; 
One  with  a  truncheon  foileth  at  his  foe, 
And  one  him  hurleth  from  his  horse  full  low ; 
One  through  the  body  is  hurt,  and  they  him  take, 
Maugre  his  head,  and  bear  him  to  the  stake 
As  was  agreed,  and  there  he  must  abide." 

JOHN. 
They  remind  me  of  some  of  Leigh  Hunt's  descrip- 
tions, tliough  he  sometimes  dwindles  a  little  too  much 
into  the  inventory  style,  and  counts  the  nails  in  the 
horses'  shoes,  and  the  wrinkles  in  the  knights'  tunics. 
Yet  no  man  has  ever  understood  the  delicacies  and  lux- 
uries of  language  better  than  he,  and  his  thouglits  often 
have  all  the  rounded  grace  and  shifting  lustre  of  a  dove's 
neck. 

PHILIP. 

He  is  often  too  refined  to  be  easily  understood  by  the 
mob  of  readers.  He  is  tracing  out  the  nerves  and  vein- 
lets,  when  it  had  been  better  for  his  popularity  if  he 
had  developed  only  the  muscles  and  arteries.  There 
is  a  great  difference  between  being  too  refined  and  too 
minute;  and  he  is  as  often  the  one  as  the  other.  He 
gathers  together,  kernel  by  kernel,  a  bushel  of  corn, 


94  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

and  then  wonders  why  we  do  not  admire  his  picture  of 
a  cornfield.  Keats  and  Tennyson  are  both  masters  of 
description,  but  Keats  had  the  finer  ear  for  all  the  nice 
analogies  and  suggestions  of  sound,  while  his  e\e  had 
an  equally  instinctive  rectitude  of  perception  in  color. 
Tennyson's  epithets  suggest  a  silent  picture ;  Keats's 
the  very  thing  itself,  with  its  sound  or  stillness. 

JOHN. 

I  remember  a  stanza    of  Tennyson's  which  unites 

these  excellences. 

"  A  still,  salt  pool,  locked  in  with  bars  of  sand, 
Left  on  the  shore ;  which  hears  all  night 
The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from  the  land 
Their  moon-led  waters  white." 

PHILIP. 

That  is  one  of  the  most  perfect  images  in  any  lan- 
guage, and,  as  a  picture  of  a  soul  made  lonely  and 
selfish  by  indulgence  in  over-refined  philosophizing,  it 
is  yet  more  exquisite.  But,  if  Tennyson's  mind  be 
more  sensitive,  Keats's  is  grander  and  of  a  larger  grasp. 
It  may  be  a  generation  or  two  before  there  comes  an- 
other so  delicate  thinker  and  speaker  as  Tennyson ;  but 
it  will  be  centuries  before  another  nature  so  sponta- 
neously noble  and  majestic  as  that  of  Keats,  and  so 
tender  and  merciful,  too,  is  embodied.  What  a  scene 
of  despair  is  that  of  his  where  Saturn  finds  the  van- 
quished Titans ! 

"Scarce  images  of  life,  one  here,  one  there, 
Lay  vast  and  edgeways,  like  a  dismal  cirque 
Of  Druid-stones  upon  a  forlorn  moor, 
When  the  chill  rain  begins  at  shut  of  eve, 
In  dull  November." 


CHAUCER.  95 

And  what  can  be  more  perfect  than  this? 

"  So  far  her  voice  flowed  on,  like  timorous  brook, 
That,  lingering  along  a  pebbled  coast. 
Doth  fear  to  meet  the  sea ;  but  sea  it  met, 
And  shuddered  ;  for  the  overwhelming  voice 
Of  huge  Enceladus  swallowed  it  in  wrath  : 
The  ponderous  syllables,  like  sullen  waves 
In  the  half-glutted  hollows  of  reef-rocks. 
Came  booming  thus.'' 

JOHN. 

The  -world  is  not  yet  aware  of  the  wonderful  merit 
of  Keats.  Men  have  squabbled  about  Chatterton,  and 
written  lives  of  Kirke  White,  while  they  have  treated 
with  contempt  the  rival,  and,  I  will  dare  to  say,  the 
sometimes  superior,  of  IMilton.  The  critics  gravely 
and  with  reverence  hold  up  their  bit  of  smoked  glass 
between  you  and  the  lantern  at  a  kite's  tail,  and  bid 
you  behold  the  sun,  undazzled ;  but  their  ceremonious 
fooleries  will  one  day  be  as  ridiculous  as  those  of  the 
Tahitian  priests.  Keats  can  afford  to  wait,  and  he  will 
yet  be  sacred  to  the  hearts  of  all  those  who  love  the 
triumphs  and  ovations  of  our  noble  mother-tongue. 

PHILIP. 

I  must  please  myself  with  one  more  quotation  from 

his  "  Hyperion."     After  the  murmur  among  the  Titans 

at  Saturn's  entrance  has  ceased, 

"  Saturn's  voice  therefrom 
Grew  up  like  organ,  that  begins  anew 
Its  strain,  when  other  harmonies,  stopped  short, 
Leave  the  dinned  air  vibrating  silverly." 

Could  sound  and  sense  hai^monize  more  fitly?  In 
reading  it,  the  voice  flows  on  at  first  smoothly  and 


96  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

equably.  At  the  end  of  the  third  verse  it  pauses  ab- 
ruptly in  spite  of  itself,  and  in  the  last  vibrates  and 
wavers  in  accordance  with  the  meaning.  You  see  the 
art  with  which  the  word  "  vibrating  "  is  placed  so  as 
to  prevent  you  from  reading  the  word  monotonously. 
Among  the  ancient  poets  I  can  seldom  detect  any  of 
the  nice  feeling  of  language  which  distinguishes  many 
of  our  own.  I  recognize  it  in  that  oft-quoted  passage 
in  ^schylus,  where  Prometheus  invokes 

avfipidfiov  yD.aa/ia" 

in  which  the  long  roll  of  the  first  syllables,  the  liquid 
sound  of  d.i^rjpcdfiou,  and  the  plashing  ripple  of  yeXaapLa, 
seem  to  convey  some  audible  suggestion  of  the  sea. 
Now  and  then,  I  fancy  I  can  trace  a  few  similar 
glimpses  in  Ovid,  who  is  to  me  the  truest  poet  among 
the  Latins,  but  they  would  probably  elude  any  but  a 
partial  ear.  Beside  this  passage  of  ^schylus  I  would 
set  one  from  Spenser. 

"  With  that  rolling  sea,  resounding  soft, 
In  his  big  base,  them  fitly  answered, 
And  on  the  rocks  the  waves  breaking  aloft 
A  solemne  meane  unto  them  measured, 
The  whiles  sweet  Zephyrus  loudly  whisteled 
His  treble." 

I  cannot  doubt  but  the  hissing  sound  given  to  the 
fifth  verse  by  the  number  of  s-s  was  intentional. 

JOHX. 

There  is  a  line  in  Longfellow's  ballad  of  "The 
Wreck  of  the  Hesperus"  which  has  always  pleased 
both  my  imagination  and  my  ear. 


CHA  UCER.  97 

PHILIP. 

I  think  I  know  which  one  you  mean.    I  will  repeat 

it  at  a  venture.     It  is  the  last  of  these  two : 

"  And  a  whooping  billow  swept  her  crew 
Like  icicles  from  her  deck." 

Ara  I  right? 

JOHN. 

Yes.  I  do  not  like  the  epithet  "  iohoopi7ig ''  in  the 
first  verse,  but  I  consider  the  whole  of  the  last  admi- 
rable. A  single  happy  epithet  is  always  wortli  a  folio 
of  description;  and  in  this  the  word  "icicle"  tells  the 
Avhole  story. 

PHILIP. 

I  like  it  as  much  as  you  do. 

JOHN. 

In  Leigh  Hunt's  "  Hero  and  Leandcr "  there  is  a 
descriptive  verse  which  I  esteem  one  of  the  rarest  of 
its  kind.  Hero  is  expecting  Leander  on  the  last  fatal 
night. 

"  Hero  looked  forth,  and  trembling  angured  ill, 
The  darkness  held  its  breath  so  very  slill." 

PHILIP. 
In  this  there  is  the  great  merit  that  the  ideas  sug- 
gested give  vigor  and  support  to  the  mere  external 
significance.  It  is  very  natural  that  Hero  should  per- 
sonify the  darkness,  and  attribute  an  evil  intent  to  it; 
and  one  who  meditates  or  strikes  a  revengeful  blow 
holds  in  his  breath.  There  is  another  version  of 
7 


98  SECOND  CONVERSATION, 

Musseus's  story,  by  Marlow  and  Chapman,  which  is 
crowded  full  of  beauties.  Here  are  a  few  lines  in 
jjoint. 

"  Buskins  of  shells  all  silvered  used  she 
And  branched  with  blushing  coral  to  the  knee, 
Where  sparrows  perched,  of  hollow  pearl  and  gold, 
Such  as  the  world  would  wonder  to  behold ; 
These  Avith  sweet  water  oft  her  handmaid  fills. 
Which,  as  she  went,  would  chenip  through  their  bilk." 

This  is  a  gift  of  Marlow's  luxurious  fancy.  He 
throws  down  such  by  the  handful.  The  last  verse, 
you  see,  illustrates  the  topic  we  have  sauntered  to.  I 
remember  that  John  S.  Dwight,  who  has  a  very  refined 
insight  in  such  matters,  commends  Bryant  for  his 
excellence  in  descriptive  epithets,  and  quotes,  in  sup- 
port of  his  opinion,  this  verse : 

"  With  valleys  scooped  between." 

This  is  one  of  those  epithets  whose  beauty  lies  in  its 
simplicity  and  plainness.  Ordinary  poets,  having  a 
natural  fellow-feeling  with  ordinary  objects,  strive  to 
elevate  them  by  a  lofty  scaffolding  of  words,  not  being 
able  to  conceive  that  the  most  natural  image  (so  it  be 
drawn  from  nothing  in  itself  base)  is  always  the  most 
noble.  They  buckle  the  cothutni  upon  the  feet  of  a 
dwarf,  and  make  him  ridiculous  by  the  enforced  maj- 
esty of  his  gait.  The  true  poet  picks  up  a  common 
reed  and  entices  ravishing  melody  from  it.  Humble- 
ness is  always  grace,  always  dignity.  The  propriety 
and  force  of  the  epithet  quoted  above  is  confirmed  by 
its  having  occurred  to  another  mind,  also  a  highly 
poetical  one.     Wesley,  in  his  Journal,  says : 


CHA  VCER.  99 

"  The  place  in  which  I  preached  was  an  oval  spot  of  ground, 
surrounded  with  spreading  trees,  scooped  out,  as  it  were,  in  tlie  side 
of  a  hill,  which  rose  round  like  a  theatre." — Houthey^s  Life  of  Wesley 
(American  edition),  II.  49. 

Before  we  lay  down  Clmucer,  let  me  read  a  few  more 
passages.  In  "  The  Man  of  Law's  Tale,"  there  is  a 
terribly  graphic  stanza. 

"  Have  ye  not  sometimes  seen  a  pallid  face, 
Among  a  press,  of  him  that  hath  hcen  led 
Toward  his  death,  where  he  can  liope  no  grace, 
And  such  a  color  in  his  face  hath  had, 
That  men  might  know  him  that  was  so  bested, 
Among  the  crowd  of  faces  in  that  rout? 
So  Constance  stands  and  looketh  her  about." 

Chaucer  had  a  great  deal  of  what  is  called  know- 
ledge of  the  world,  but  it  never  rendered  him  sour  or 
contemptuous.  Whenever  he  turns  his  eye  that  way, 
his  glance  softens  with  pity  or  with  a  good-humored 
smile.  In  "  The  Story  of  Cambuscan  bold,"  he  de- 
scribes the  crowd  who  gathered  about  the  wonderful 
brazen  horse,  each  one  of  whom,  in  proportion  to  his 
ignorance,  is  anxious  to  express  an  opinion  about  it. 
He  ends  by  saying, 

"  As  unlearned  people  fancy  commonly 
Of  whatsoever  thing  may  chance  to  be 
More  subtly  made  than  they  can  comprehend, 
They  (jladly  set  it  domi  for  some  bad  end." 

I  am  merely  reading  at  randoiu  such  passages  as 
strike  me.  In  "  The  Pardoner's  Tale,"  Chaucer  de- 
scribes Death  as  a  weary  old  man,  in  a  compassionate 
kind  of  way  that  makes  us  pity  him.  Three  riotous 
fellows  have  sworn  to  be  revenged  upon  Death,  if  they 


100  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

can  find  him.     Presently,  they  meet  an  old  man  (Death 
himself),  who  says  to  them, — 

"  For  I  cannot  find 
A  man,  though  I  should  walk  to  farthest  Ind, 
Either  in  any  city  or  village, 
That  would  exchange  his  youth  for  my  old  age; 
And  therefore  must  I  keep  mine  old  age  still, 
As  long  a  time  as  it  is  God's  good  will ; 
Even  Death,  alas !  my  poor  life  will  not  have. 
Thus  do  I  wander  like  a  restless  slave, 
And  on  the  earth,  which  is  my  mother's  gate, 
Thus  knock  I  witli  my  staff,  early  and  late, 
And  say  to  her,  '  Dear  mother,  let  me  in ; 
Lo,  how  I  vanish,  flesh,  and  blood,  and  skin  1 
Alas!  when  shall  my  old  bones  be  at  rest?'" 

JOHN. 

Death  lias  been  hardly  ever  so  tenderly  spoken  of. 
It  is  singular  Avhat  ugly  portraits  of  him  are  ordinarily 
given  us.  There  seems  to  be  but  little  living  faith  in 
the  immortality  of  the  soul ;  so  soon  does  any  idea  be- 
come formal  and  external,  when  diluted  by  the  cus- 
tomariness  of  a  creed.  Men  do  not  believe  in  the  next 
world  as  they  do  in  London  or  Boston  ;  they  do  not 
launch  upon  the  ignotuin  mare  with  a  shadow  of  that 
prophetic  belief  which  girded  up  the  heart  of  Colum- 
bus. Most  religion-mongers  have  baited  their  paradises 
with  a  bit  of  toasted  cheese.  They  have  tempted  the 
body  with  large  promise  of  possessions  in  their  trans- 
mortal  El  Dorado.  Sancho  Panza  will  not  quit  his 
chimney-corner  but  under  promise  of  imaginary  islands 
to  govern.  For  my  own  part,  I  think  it  wiser  to  make 
the  spirit  a  staff  for  the  body  than  the  body  for  the 
spirit.     When  the  vessel  casts  off  for  the  voyage,  and 


CHAUCER.  101 

the  body  finds  itself  left  behind,  it  may  well  cry  out 
and  disturb  the  whole  vicinage  with  the  story  of  its 
Avrong. 

PHILIP. 

I  agree  with  you  that  the  body  is  treated  with  quite 
too  much  ceremony  and  respect.  Even  religion  has 
veiled  its  politic  hat  to  it,  till,  like  Christopher  Sly,  it 
is  metamorphosed,  in  its  own  estimation,  from  a  tinker 
to  a  duke.  Men  who  would,  without  compunction, 
kick  a  living  beggar,  will  yet  stand  in  awe  of  his  poor 
carcass,  after  all  that  rendered  it  truly  venerable  has 
fled  out  of  it.  We  agree  with  the  old  barbarian  epi- 
taph which  affirmed  that  the  handful  of  dust  had  been 
Ninus;  as  if  that  which  convicts  us  of  mortality  and 
weakness  would  at  the  same,  time  endow  us  with  our 
high  prerogative  of  kingship  over  them.  South,  in  one 
of  his  sermons,  tells  us  of  certain  men  whose  souls  are 
of  no  worth,  but  as  salt  to  keep  their  bodies  from 
putrefying.  I  fear  that  the  soul  is  too  often  regarded 
in  this  sutler  fashion.  Why  should  men  ever  be  afraid 
to  die,  but  that  they  regard  the  spirit  as  secondary  to 
that  which  is  but  its  mere  appendage  and  conveniency, 
its  symbol,  its  word,  its  means  of  visibility?  If  the 
soul  lose  this  poor  mansion  of  hers  by  the  sudden  con- 
flagration of  disease,  or  by  the  slow  decay  of  age,  is  she 
therefore  houseless  and  shelterless?  If  she  cast  away 
this  soiled  and  tattered  garment,  is  she  therefore  naked  ? 
A  child  looks  forward  to  his  new  suit,  and  dons  it  joy- 
fidly  ;  we  cling  to  our  rags  and  foulness.  AVe  should 
welcome  Death  as  one  who  brings  us  tidings  of  the 
finding  of  long-lost  titles  to  a  large  family  estate,  and 


102  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

set  out  gladly  to  take  possession,  though,  it  may  be,  not 
without  a  natural  tear  for  the  humbler  home  we  are 
leaving.  Death  always  means  us  a  kindness,  though 
he  has  often  a  gruff  way  of  offering  it.  Even  if  the 
soul  never  returned  from  that  chartless  and  unmapped 
country,  which  I  do  not  believe,  I  would  take  Sir  John 
Davies's  reason  as  a  good  one : 

"  But,  as  Noali's  pigeon,  which  returned  no  more, 
Did  show  she  footing  found,  for  all  tjie  flood ; 
So,  when  good  souls,  departed  through  death's  door, 
Come  not  again,  it  shows  their  dwelling  good." 

The  realm  of  Death  seems  an  enemy's  country  to 
most  men,  on  whose  shores  they  are  loathly  driven  by 
stress  of  weather ;  to  the  wise  man  it  is  the  desired 
port,  where  he  moors  his  bark  gladly,  as  in  some  quiet 
haven  of  the  Fortunate  Isles ;  it  is  the  golden  west  in 
which  his  sun  sinks,  and,  sinking,  casts  back  a  glory 
upon  the  leaden  cloud-rack  which  had  darkly  besieged 
his  day. 

After  all,  the  body  is  a  more  expert  dialectician  than 
the  soul,  and  buffets  it,  even  to  bewilderment,  with  the 
empty  bladders  of  logic ;  but  the  soul  can  retire  from 
the  dust  and  turmoil  of  such  conflict,  to  the  high  tower 
of  instinctive  faith,  and  there,  in  hushed  serenity,  take 
comfort  of  the  sympathizing  stars.  We  look  at  Death 
through  the  cheap-glazed  windows  of  the  flesh,  and 
believe  him  for  the  monster  which  the  flawed  and 
crooked  glass  presents  him.  You  say  truly  that  we 
have  wasted  time  in  trying  to  coax  the  body  into  a  faith 
in  what,  by  its  very  nature,  it  is  incapable  of  compre- 
hending.    Hence,  a  plethoric,  short-winded  kind  of 


CHAUCER.  103 

belief,  that  can  walk  at  an  easy  pace  over  tlic  smooth 
plain,  bnt  loses  breath  at  the  first  sharp  uphill  of  life. 
How  idle  is  it  to  set  a  sensual  bill  of  fare  before  the 
soul,  acting  over  again  the  old  story  of  the  Crane  and 
the  Fox ! 

JOHN. 

I  know  not  when  we  shall  hear  pure  spiritualism 
preached  by  the  authorized  expounders  of  doctrine. 
These  have  suffered  the  grain  to  mildew,  while  they 
have  been  wrangling  about  the  husks  of  form  ;  and  the 
people  have  stood  by,  hungry  and  half-starved,  too 
intent  on  the  issue  of  the  quarrel  to  be  conscious  that 
they  were  trampling  the  forgotten  and  scattered  bread 
of  life  in  the  mire.  Thank  Heaven,  they  may  still 
pluck  rij)e  ears,  of  God's  own  planting  and  watering, 
in  the  fields ! 

In  the  conclusion  to  Raleigh's  "  History  of  the 
"World"  there  is  a  passage  concerning  Death,  which 
rolls  on  with  the  muffled  grandeur  of  a  funeral  march. 
There  is  something  in  it  which  always  affects  me 
strangely.     I  must  repeat  it  to  you. 

"  O  eloquent,  just,  and  mighty  Death  !  whom  none  could  advise, 
thou  hast  persuaded  ;  what  none  hatli  dared,  thou  hast  done ;  and 
whom  all  the  world  hath  flattered,  thou  only  hast  cast  out  of  the 
world  and  despised;  thou  hast  drawn  together  all  the  far-stretched 
greatness,  all  the  pride,  cruelty,  and  ambition  of  man,  and  covered 
it  all  over  with  these  two  narrow  words, — IIlc  jacctf" 

PHILIP. 

Magnificent  truly  ! — I  Iiave  but  one  more  promise 
yet  to  fulfil,  and  that  is,  to  read  you  an  extract  from 
"  Troilus  and  Creseidc,"  modernized  by  Wordsworth. 


€NIV 


or  rut  '^    \ 

7ER8IT1   ! 


104  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

I  shall  select  a  few  verses,  leaving  you  to  read  the  rest 
at  your  leisure.  After  Cressid  has  left  Troy,  Troilus 
goes  in  secret  to  see  once  more  her  house,  where  they 
had  been  wont  to  meet. 

"  Then  said  he  thus : — '  O  palace  desolate ! 
O  house  of  houses,  once  so  richly  dight ! 
O  palace  empty  and  disconsolate ! 
Thou  lamp,  of  which  extinguished  is  the  light  I 
O  palace,  whilom  day,  that  now  art  night ! 
Thou  ought' st  to  fall,  and  I  to  die,  since  she 
Is  gone  who  held  us  both  in  sovereignty. 

" '  O  of  all  houses  once  the  crowned  boast ! 
Palace  illumined  with  the  sun  of  bliss! 
O  ring,  of  which  the  ruby  now  is  lost ! 
O  cause  of  woe,  that  cause  has  been  of  bliss! 
Yet,  since  I  may  no  better,  would  I  kiss 
Thy  cold  doors ;  but  I  dare  not  for  this  rout  : 
Farewell,  thou  shrine,  of  which  the  saint  is  out ! ' " 


"Forth  from  the  spot  he  rideth  up  and  down, 
And  everything  to  his  rememberance 
Came,  as  he  rode  by  places  of  the  town 
Where  he  had  felt  such  perfect  pleasure  once. 
'  Lo,  yonder  saw  I  mine  own  lady  dance, 
And  in  that  temple  she  with  her  bright  eyes, 
My  lady  dear,  first  bound  rae  captivewise ; 

"'And  yonder,  with  joy-smitten  heart,  have  I 

Heard  my  own  Cressids  laugh  ;  and  once  at  play 

I  yonder  saw  her  eke  full  blissfully  ; 

And  yonder  once  she  unto  me  'gan  say, 

"  Now,  my  sweet  Troilus,  love  me  well,  I  pray  ! " 

And  there  so  graciously  did  me  behold. 

That  hers  unto  the  death  my  heart  I  hold. 

"  'And  at  the  corner  of  that  selfsame  house 
Heard  I  my  most  beloved  lady  dear, 


CHA  UCER.  105 

So  womanly,  with  voice  melodious 
Singing  so  well,  so  goodly,  and  so  clear, 
That  in  my  soul,  methinks,  I  yet  do  hear 
The  blissful  sound  ;  and  in  that  very  place 
My  lady  first  me  took  unto  her  grace.' 

"Another  time  he  took  into  his  head 
That  every  wight,  who  in  the  way  passed  by, 
Had  of  him  rutli,  and  fancied  that  they  said, 
'  I  am  right  sorry  Troilus  will  die  !' 

"  And  every  night,  as  he  was  wont  to  do, 
Troilus  stood  the  bright  moon  to  behold; 
And  all  his  trouble  to  the  moon  he  told. 
And  said, '  I  wis,  when  thou  art  horned  anew, 
I  shall  be  glad  if  all  the  world  be  true.' 

"  Upon  the  walls  fast  also  would  he  walk, 
To  the  end  that  he  the  Grecian  host  might  see  ; 
And  ever  thus  he  to  himself  would  talk : — 
'Lo,  yonder  is  mine  own  bright  lady  free; 
Or  yonder  is  it  that  the  tents  must  be ; 
And  thence  doth  come  this  air,  that  is  so  sweet 
That  in  my  heart  I  feel  the  joy  of  it. 

"  '  And  certainly  this  wind,  that  more  and  more. 
By  moments,  thus  increaseth  in  my  face. 
Is  of  my  lady's  sighs  heavy  and  sore : 
I  prove  it  thus  ;  for,  in  no  other  space, 
Of  all  this  town,  save  only  in  this  place. 
Feel  I  a  wind  that  soundeth  so  like  pain ; 
It  saith,  "  Alas  !  why  severed  are  we  twain  ?  "  '  " 

I  venture  to  sav  that  von  know  nothino;  in  English 
(and,  if  not  in  that,  surely  in  no  other  language)  rarer 
in  its  kind  than  this.  I  have  made  only  one  change 
in  it,  a  merely  literal  one,  substituting  "doth"  for 
"  does,"  in  the  sixth  line  of  the  last  stanza  but  one. 
The  euphony  of  the  verse  seemed  to  me  to  demand  it. 


106  SECOXD  COXVERSATIOX. 

And  this  leads  us  back  again  to  the  beginning  of  our 
conversation.  Here  is  an  archaism  which  the  rabble 
of  sibilant  sounds  in  our  language  not  only  excuses, 
but  renders  necessary,  even  if  an  argument  might  not 
be  legitimately  drawn  from  the  loss  which  melody 
feels  in  the  banishment  of  the  soft  termination  th. 

JOHX. 

What  a  sweet  fancy  is  that  of  Troilus  about  tlie 
wind !  It  reminds  one  of  Romeo. — I  agree  with  you 
about  the  termination  th,  nor  do  I  think  that  these 
little  niceties  and  refinements  of  lano-uao-e  are  beneath 
the  dignity  of  serious  study  and  argument.  A  stray 
hair,  by  its  continued  irritation,  may  give  more  annoy- 
ance than  a  sharp  blow. 

PHILIP. 

In  many  words  this  termination  is  necessaiy  to  give 
sufficient  prolongation  to  the  sound,  as  in  Unger-dh, 
murmur-eth,  wander-eth,  abkl-eth, — words  denoting  a 
continuance  of  action,  and  which  are  defrauded  of 
their  just  amount  of  expression  by  being  squeezed  into 
a  compacter  form,  and  set  off  with  tlie  fizz  of  an  s  at 
the  end,  as  in  wanders,  murmurs,  and  lingers.  Where 
plaintiveness  of  tone  is  demanded,  the  sweet  gravity 
of  this  termination  should  always  plead  for  its  use. 
It  is  one  of  the  excellences  of  our  lano-uafje.  In  some 
words  it  were  manifestly  out  of  place,  as  in  whistles, 
stops,  hisses,  slides.  In  the  dramatic  form,  too,  it 
should  be  sparingly  employed.  There,  we  mostly 
want  dii-ectness,  plainness  and  force,  and  such  exquis- 
iteness  would  seem  like  finery  and  foppishness.     The 


CHAUCER.  107 

sentiment,  demanding,  as  it  always  does,  the  keenest 
and  most  delicate  sympathy  from  the  diction,  must 
decide  without  appeal  in  such  cases.  Milton  shows 
the  sensitiveness  of  his  ear  most  in  his  earlier  poems, 
especially  in  "  Comns"  and  "Lycidas."  It  is  remark- 
able that  his  blindness  seems  rather  to  have  lessened 
than  increased  this  faculty  in  him.  Perhaps  our 
noble  philanthrope.  Dr.  Howe,  could  explain  this. 
His  "  Samson  Agonistes  "  is  singularly  harsh  and  un- 
musical, and  often  far  less  metrical  than  the  sonorous 
and  enthusiastical  sentences  which  jut  out  continually 
above  the  level  of  his  prose.  Coleridge  well  expressed 
Shakespeare's  mastery  over  language,  when  he  said  that 
you  could  no  more  detrude  a  word  from  one  of  his 
verses,  than  you  could  push  out  a  brick  from  the  side 
of  a  house  with  your  finger.  Sometimes  the  language 
of  a  whole  play  seems  to  be  pervaded  and  tempered 
by  a  prevailing  sentiment.  I  have  always  thought  so 
of  that  most  sombre  of  his  tragedies,  "  Richard  the 
Second."  There  is  little  of  his  Titanic,  heaven-scalins; 
boldness  of  metaphor  and  expression  in  it ;  all  is  grave, 
subdued,  and  mournful ;  and  you  read  it  under  your 
voice,  as  if  in  a  funeral  chamber. 

I  fear  that  I  have  spoken  too  harshly  of  the  letter 
s.  It  often  adds  much  to  the  expression  of  a  verse, — 
in  the  word  silence,  for  example.  It  is  only  by  the 
contrast  of  some  slight  noise  that  we  can  appreciate 
silence.  A  solitude  is  never  so  lonely  as  when  the 
wind  sighs  through  it.  This  is  suggested  to  the  ear, 
and  so  to  the  imagination,  by  the  sound  of  the  word. 
Keats,  therefore,  did  well  in  bringing  together  such  a 
cohort  of  s-s  in  the  opening  of  his  "Hyperion:" 


108  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

"  Deep  in  the  shady  stillness  of  a  vale, 
Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  mom, 
Far  from  the  fiery  moon  and  eve's  one  star, 
*Sat  gray-haired  -Saturn,  silent  as  a  stone, 
-Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair." 

Do  you  not  feel  it  ?  The  whole  passage,  for  some 
distance  farther  on,  is  full  of  this  sighing  melody,  and 
so  impresses  me  with  its  utter  loneliness  and  desertion, 
that,  after  repeating  it  to  myself  when  alone,  I  am 
relieved  to  hear  the  companionable  flicker  of  the  fire, 
or  the  tinkling  fall  of  an  ember.  The  same  is  observ- 
able in  the  first  lines  of  Drummond's  Tenth  Sonnet, 
and,  indeed,  throughout  the  whole  of  it : 

"  Sleep,  Silence,  child,  sweet  father  of  soft  rest, 
Prince  whose  approach  peace  to  all  mortals  brings, 
Indifferent  host  to  shepherds  and  to  kings." 

Here  we  feel  a  kind  of  hushing  sound,  as  if  pre- 
luding sleep,  conveyed  by  the  s-s  and  the  c-s.  You 
must  remember  that  I  am  speaking  of  silence  as  it  im- 
presses the  ear  only ;  for  its  effect  often  receives  a 
reinforcement  from  the  eye  also,  as  in  the  African 
deserts,  which,  though  they  seem  the  very  extreme  of 
stillness  by  day,  when  the  eye  can  appreciate  their 
utter  loneliness,  would  not  appear  more  hushed  than 
tliis  room  in  thorough  darkness.  In  the  same  way 
that  we  estimate  silence  by  contrast  with  the  nearest 
possible  approach  to  it  in  sound,  do  we  measure  dark- 
ness by  a  similar  comparison  with  light.  This  Milton 
felt,  when  he  said, 

"  Ko  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible  ;  " 

which  could  not  be,  except  for  some  presence  of  light. 


CHAUCER.  109 

like  that  which  Spenser,  impressed  with  the  same  feel- 
ing, calls 

"  A  little  glooming  light,  much  like  a  shade." 

There  is  a  passage  also  in  Thomson,  \vho  had  a 
very  nice  ear,  which  is  in  point.  You  will  see  how 
he  changes  from  the  roughness  of  the  r  to  the  smooth 
glide  of  the  s. 

"  At  last,  the  roused-up  river  pours  along : 
Resistless,  roaring,  dreadful,  down  it  comes 
From  the  rude  mountain  and  the  mossy  wild, 
Tumbling  through  rocks  abrupt,  and  sounding  far; 
Then  o'er  the  sanded  valley  floating  spreads, 
Calm,  sluggish,  silent." 

So,  likewise,  in  the  first  four  stanzas  of  Collins's 
most  delicious  "  Ode  to  Evening,"  an  ode  impregnated 
with  deep  calm,  and  the  verses  of  which  seem  like  the 
arches  of  some  deserted  cloister,  each  growing  silenter 
as  you  enter  farther  into  their  dim  seclusion.  I  could 
easily  cite  passages  from  Shakespeare  and  Spenser  to 
show  that  they  well  understood  this  secret.  In  the 
word  rustle  and  others  of  the  same  kind,  the  s  is  full 
of  meaning.  Hawtliorne,  who  has  a  right  in  any 
gathering  of  poets,  will  give  me  an  example.  It  is 
from  his  wonderful  ''  Hollow  of  the  Three  Hills." 

"Before  them  went  the  priest,  reading  the  burial-service,  while 
the  leaves  of  his  book  were  rujiiling  in  the  breeze." 

The  expression  of  the  passage  suffers  by  being  torn 
away  from  its  context.  An  air  of  silence  pervades 
the  whole.  It  is  this  property  of  the  letter  s  to  give 
a  feeling  of  stillness,  or  of  such  faint  sounds  as  M'ould 


110  SECOND  CONVERSATION. 

be  heard  only  when  everything  else  is  hushed,  that 
takes  away  all  force  from  words  like  dissonance,  which 
Milton  sometimes  introduces,  as  I  think,  unwisely, — 
as  in  this  passage  from  "  Comus :  " 

"  The  wonted  roar  was  up  amongst  the  woods, 
And  filled  the  air  with  barbarous  dissonance : " 

where  it  does  not  at  all  harmonize  with  the  imme- 
diately-preceding "  roar." 

After  all,  it  seems  to  me  that  there  is  no  European 
lang;uao;e  so  rich  in  words  that  echo  the  sense  and  feel- 
ing  as  the  English.  The  modern  French  assume  a 
great  license  in  inventing  Avords  of  this  kind,  but  their 
newness  and  want  of  previous  association  rob  them  of 
much  of  their  force.  We,  it  is  true,  have  cheated  the 
r  of  half  of  its  dignity ;  but  in  the  Italian,  where  it 
is  indulged  and  petted,  it  often  disturbs  much  better 
company  with  its  licensed  brabblings. 

There  is  no  deeper  study  than  this  of  words ;  and  I 
have  found  in  many  an  otherwise  dull  and  muddy  old 
folio  the  amplest  repayment,  when  I  have  met  in  it  a 
single  hint  to  the  clearer  understanding  of  this  mystery. 
\Yhat  book  are  you  searching  the  shelves  for  ? 

JOHN. 

Gray's  Letters.  There  is  a  passage  in  one  of  them 
on  the  subject  of  the  resurrection  of  old  M'ords, 
which  is  to  the  point.  I  suppose  I  must  allow  the 
authority  of  so  classical  a  writer,  though  it  tell  against 
the  opinion  I  expressed  in  the  first  part  of  yesterday's 
conversation.     Here  it  is. 


CHAUCER.  Ill 

"Our  poetry  lias  a  languuf^e  peculiar  to  itself;  to  which  almost 
every  one  that  has  written  has  added  sometliing  hy  enrichinpf  it 
with  foreign  idioms  and  derivatives,  nay,  sometimes  words  of  their 
own  composition  or  invention.  Shakespeare  and  Milton  have  heen 
great  creators  this  way ;  and  no  one  more  licentious  than  Pope 
or  Dryden,  who  perpetually  borrow  from  the  former.  .  .  .  Our 
language,  not  being  a  settled  thing  (like  the  French),  has  an 
undoubted  right  to  words  of  an  hundred  years  old,  provided 
antiquity  have  not  rendered  them  unintelligible.  In  truth, 
Shakespeare's  language  is  one  of  his  principal  beauties,  and  he  has 
no  less  advantage  over  your  Addisons  and  Eowes  in  this,  than  in 
those  other  great  excellences  you  mention."  * 

PHILIP. 

Had  Gray  been  a.s  untrammelled  in  his  poetrj'  as  iu 
liis  prose,  he  would  have  been  as  delightful  as  Gold- 
smith.— Well,  M'e  have,  as  usual  when  we  come 
together,  talked  a  little  about  everything.  We  should 
hardly  have  pleased  Pythagoras,  who  enjoined  a  five 
years'  silence,  and  whose  disciples,  as  Athenaeus  relates, 
were  wont  to  hold  fishes  in  high  esteem  ^oy  their  taci- 
turnity. 

"  To-morrow  to  fresh  w-oods  and  pastures  new." 
*  Letter  LII.,  to  Mr.  West. 


THIRD  CONVEESATION. 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS. 

JOHN. 

I  BELIEVE  it  was  Dr.  Johnson  (surely,  it  was  no 
poet)  who  first  said  that  all  good  poetry  could  be 
translated  into  as  good  prose.  It  is  plain  that  he  saw 
no  distinction  between  the  two,  except  in  the  metre 
and  rhyme.  I  should  judge  so,  at  least,  from  his  own 
verses. 

PHILIP. 

He  meant  that  all  poetry  must  be  translatable  into 
"  common  sense,"  that  popular  altar  upon  whose  horns 
dulness  and  prejudice  are  so  ready  to  cling.  But  how 
is  Peo-asus  better  than  a  drav-horse,  with  this  market- 
cart  trundling  behind  him?  Doubtless,  some  of  the 
truest  poetry  has  been  written  without  either  rhyme  or 
metre ;  but  it  has  lacked  one  of  its  highest  adornments, 
and  one  Avhich  the.  most  poetical  thoughts  demand. 
Metre  and  rhyme  are  wings  to  the  artist,  and  crutches 
to  the  artificer;  they  may  lift  the  one  to  a  more 
empyreal  vantage-ground,  but  they  will  only  change 
the  natural  gait  of  the  other  for  a  hobble.  Tlie 
grandest  and  most  noble  part  of  poetry  is  independent 
of  them.     Yet,  A\anting  these,  a  poem  shall  want  the 

112 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  113 

corapleteuess  of  its  effect.  I  believe  both  of  tliem  to 
be  the  instinctive  desires  of  the  most  amply  poetical 
spirits.  I  could  cite  many  jweins  which  would  be 
nothing  without  them,  yet  which  have  the  blessed  power 
to  lead  my  heart  into  the  cool  stillness  of  memory,  or 
to  the  breezy  headlands  of  hope.    . 

JOHN. 

Prose  may  do  the  same. 

PHILIP. 

Ay,  but  not  so  cheaply  and  simply.  It  is  a  great 
gift  to  be  able  to  conceive  and  express  those  thoughts 
Mhich  entice  us  out  of  the  actual  into  the  ideal ;  a  yet 
greater  one,  to  utter  such  as  teach  us  to  unite  the  two ; 
but,  surely,  that  is  the  greatest  gift  of  all  which  super- 
adds to  these  a  keener  and  more  refined  delio;ht. 
There  are  moods,  too,  in  which  pleasurable  emotion  is 
all  that  the  mind  is  callable  of,  and  the  power  of 
bestowing  this,  merely,  is  not  to  be  contemned.  Beauty 
is  always  use.  The  acanthus-leaves  of  the  capital  do 
not  help  the  pillar  as  a  support,  and  yet  I  think  that 
even  the  iconoclastic  hammer  of  strictest  utilitarianism 
might  consistently  spare  them.  There  are  passages  in 
Milton's  prose  which  fall  below  his  poetry  only  for 
want  of  the  majestic  grace  of  his  metre.  They  make 
life  seem  fairer  to  me,  they  give  my  heart  a  manlier 
brace ;  but  I  am  conscious  of  a  barenness  in  them, 
which  I  had  never  known,  perhaps,  had  he  not  him- 
self betrayed  it  to  me  by  that  more  lavish  splendor  of 
his  verse,  ever  changeful,  ever  new,  pavilioning  his 
thoughts  like  the  cloud  arches  of  a  sunset. 


114  THIRD  CONVERSATIOX. 

JOHN. 

If  Swift  were  right  wheu  he  called  him  the  greatest 
benefactor  of  mankind,  who  made  two  blades  of  grass 
grow  where  one  grew  before,  I  would  give  no  mean 
place  to  the  bestower  of  a  new  flower  Whatever  has 
given  the  spirit  a  fresh  delight  has  established  for  itself 
a  fair  title  in  fee  simple  to  the  room  it  has  taken  up  on 
our  planet.  Your  business  to  day  is,  to  prove  the  title 
of  the  Old  Dramatists. 

PHILIP. 

Those  are  the  greatest  poets  who  have  expressed  the 
largest  number  of  our  common  thoughts  concisely  and 
portably.  By  conciseness  I  would  not  be  understood 
to  mean  a  Spartan  and  niggardly  brevity,  or  that  tight- 
laced  affectation  which  puts  a  full  stop  in  place  of  a 
comma,  and  makes  expression  pant  and  breathe  short. 
If  we  tie  a  bundle  too  tightly,  our  packthread  is  apt 
to  break,  and  we  loose  our  pains.  Feeling  and  diction 
soon  lose  their  healthy  color,  when  they  are  imprisoned 
together  in  too  narrow  a  cell.  That  style  is  the  most 
concise  which  expresses  a  thought  best,  whether  it  be 
in  few  or  many  words.  A  painter  would  choose  a 
larger  canvas,  and  charge  his  .palette  with  richer  and 
more  varied  colors,  to  paint  a  sunset,  than  to  paint  a 
mouse ;  yet  the  one  would  be  as  truly  concise  as  the 
other.     Simplicity  is  neither  plain  nor  bald. 

JOHX. 

No.  A  ray  of  light  seems  simple  enough,  and  yet 
is  made  up  of  all  the  primary  colors. 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  115 

PHILIP. 

Aud  light  is  the  symbol  of  truth.  As  every  sub- 
stance absoi'bs  tluit  part  of  the  pure  ray  which  its  na- 
ture and  constitution  desire,  and  becomes  colored  ac- 
cordingly^ so  is  it  with  language.  Every  Mord  has  a 
hue  of  its  own,  which  is  its  meaning;  and  a  just  com- 
bination of  these,  whether  more  or  fewer,  reproduces 
that  whole  of  which  each  is  a  part,  and  the  general 
effect  is  light.  The  same  is  true  of  ideas ;  and  every 
man  is  more  or  less  a  poet,  in  proportion  as  he  has  au 
instinctive  understanding  of  this  beautiful  and  har- 
monious chromatic  chord.  To  refine  a  little  farther, 
it  is  also  equally  true  of  the  sound  of  words.  Every 
cue  has  its  proper  correlative  in  color,  and  may  be  al- 
most mathematically  demonstrated  to  be  iu  or  out  of 
tune. 

JOHN. 

One  would  think,  then,  that  a  mathematical  mind 
should  excel  alike  in  poetry,  painting,  and  music ;  and 
that  Euclid,  had  he  been  so  minded,  might  have  com- 
bined the  excellences  of  Shakespeare,  Raphael,  and 
Beethoven. 

PHILIP. 

Not  more  truly  than  the  prism,  iu  giving  us  the 
same  colors,  can  satisfy  and  conciliate  the  eye  like  the 
rainbow.  I  am  not  sure,  however,  (since  the  faculty 
of  analysis  is  so  main  an  element  iu  the  mind  of  the 
artist,)  that  any  one  of  the  great  trio  you  have  named 
might  not  have  made  a  good  mathematician.  Chau- 
cer, when  in  prison,  wrote  a  treatise  on  the  astrolabe 
for  his  sou.     Pythagoras,  who  seems  to  have  had  a 


116  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

truly  poetical  nature,  made  discoveries  in  the  science 
of  numbers ;  Goethe,  in  colors,  in  botany,  and  in  anat- 
omy ;  and  Coleridge  tells  us,  that  Davy,  if  he  had  not 
chosen  to  be  a  great  chemist,  would  have  been  a  great 
poet.  But  analysis  must  be  a  subordinate  faculty,  or 
the  man,  instead  of  being  an  artist,  l)ecomes  an  imi- 
tator, using  the  same  means  Avhich  others  have  em- 
ployed, mathematically  rather  than  instinctively. 

JOHN. 

This  harmony  between  sound  and  color  and  (you 
would  add)  thought  is  a  very  enticing  one  for  specula- 
tion. I  had  often  noticed  that  particular  musical  notes 
gave  me  a  sensation  of  colors,  and  was  wont  to  apply 
it  to  some  action  of  the  associative  principle  too  fine  for 
me  to  trace  the  links,  till  I  reflected  that  neither  the 
organ  of  smell  (which  has  the  most  powerful  effect  on 
our  association  with  places)  nor  that  of  taste  was  at  all 
excited.  When  I  afterwards  found  that  there  was  a 
fixed  law  in  the  matter,  I  was,  for  a  time,  in  an  ec- 
stacy.  I  could  now  understand  why  it  was  that  cer- 
tain pieces  of  music,  though  there  were  no  discords  in 
the  performance  of  them,  were  yet  very  unpleasing  to 
me.  The  want  of  harmony  was  between  the  different 
parts.  It  was  as  if,  in  a  large  picture,  the  painter 
should  have  had  the  colors  of  each  figure,  or  of  each 
group,  in  tune,  and  yet,  failing  to  keep  the  other  groups 
in  proper  harmony,  should  make  his  whole  canvass  jar 
upon  the  eye.  I  remember  being  very  much  interested 
in  a  book  upon  the  theory  of  colors,  in  which  was  a  dia- 
gram of  the  musical  chromatic  scale.*  The  illustrations 
*  Field's  "  Theory  of  Color." 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  117 

Avere  drawn  from  our  English  poets,  especially  Shakes- 
peare, wlio  was  shown  never  to  have  struck  a  false  note. 
Truly,  as  Falstaff  says,  "  this  instinct  is  a  great  mat- 
ter." JNIany  of  the  great  painters  have  been  also  musi- 
cians. Raphael  and  Gerard  Douw  have  painted  them- 
selves in  this  character.  Musical  concerts  were  a 
favorite  subject  of  Con-eggio's  pencil.  Gainsborough 
was  as  passionately  fond  of  his  viol  de  gamba  as  of  his 
paints  and  brushes;  and  you  would  probably  say  that 
it  was  the  same  quality  of  mind  that  made  him  a  great 
painter,  which,  possessed  in  a  more  limited  degree, 
made  his  younger  brother  a  distinguished  mechanician. 
Benvenuto  Cellini,  I  think,  mentions  Michel  Angelo's 
love  of  music,  and  Avas  himself  no  mean  performer. 
Salv^ator  Rosa  must  have  had  a  sensitive  ear,  or  he 
would  never  have  been  so  expert  an  improvvissatore. 
Doubtless  a  book  of  reference  would  furnish  us  with 
many  more  examples.  Allston  was  as  fond  of  hearing 
the  rich  voice  of  his  niece,  as  Luther  was  of  his  son 
John's.  Page  has  a  delicate  appreciation  of  the  finest 
music ;  and  I  know  one,  of  whose  genius  as  a  sculptor 
I  feel  well  assured,*  who  is  a  proficient  in  the  science. 
The  fondness  of  the  painters  for  St.  Cecilia,  too,  should 
not  be  forgotten.  Fuseli  understood  the  chromatic  force 
of  words  as  well  as  of  colors,  and  has  left,  perhaps, 
the  best  descriptive  criticism  on  the  pictures  which  we 
have.  Allstou's  forthcoming  volume  of  lectures  will,  I 
doubt  not,  prove  him  also  a  master  of  the  effects  of 
language.  Nor  have  the  poets  shown  less  fondness  for 
the  sister  art.     Homer  several  times  has  a  kind  word 

*  W.  W.  Slorv,  who,  if  he  keeps  the  promise  of  the  first  luist  he 
has  exhihiterl,  may  soon  write  himself  artis  magister. 


118  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

for  tlie  singers.  In  the  eighth  book  of  the  Odyssey, 
for  instance, 

"  Tract  yap  avOpunoiCLv  kirixf^ovLOLOiV^  aoiSol 
TLfiijq  e/1/j.upoi  elm  Kal  a'ldov^." 

But  this  may  be  professional.  Shakespeare  betrays  it 
often.  ISIilton  played  upon  the  organ,  a  congenial 
instrument.  Izaak  Walton  has  recorded  Herbert's 
musical  propensity  and  skill,  and  Cowper  himself  tells 
of  his  own  fondness  for  Mrs.  Unwiu's  harpsichord. 
Goldsmith's  flute  played  the  interpreter  for  him,  and 
paid  his  way  through  France.  Collins,  one  of  our 
richest  colorists,  was  passionately  fond  of  music.  Now 
that  I  have  indulged  in  this  refinement  of  fancy  so 
far,  why  might  I  not  carry  it  a  step  farther,  and  at 
once  admit  form  as  well  as  color  into  this  musical 
party  ? 

PHILIP. 

You  have  unconsciously  done  so  already,  by  your 
allusions  to  sculptors.  Vitruvius  tells  us  that  archi- 
tects should  know  something  of  music,  and  you 
remember  Madame  De  Stael's  celebrated  fancy.  If  I 
knew  enough  of  music,  I  might,  perhaps,  find  nice 
analogies  between  its  styles  and  those  of  architecture. 
Dwight,  who  has  at  once  so  profound  and  refined  a 
perception  in  whatever  relates  to  music,  could  trace 
them  for  us  with  enthusiastic  demonstration.  The 
parallel  between  some  of  the  architectural  and  the 
poetical  styles  has  often  struck  me.  The  Grecian  cor- 
responds to  the  Epic  in  its  severe  majesty,  its  regular 
columns,  and  its  images,  calm  and  large  like  those  of 
gods. 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  119 

JOHN. 

I  see  Milton  lias  usurped  to  himself  the  whole  defi- 
nition of  Epic,  in  your  dictionary.  Homer's  Iliad, 
with  its  rapidly  shifting  scenes,  its  alarums  and  incur- 
sions, differs  from  the  Paradise  Lost  as  widely  as 
Mozart's  music  from  Handel's.  Still  farther  apart 
stands  the  })icturesquc  and  romantic  Odyssey,  with  its 
Calypso  and  Cyrce,  its  Lotophagi  and  Lestrygons  and 
Cyclops,  and  the  homely  glimpse  of  old  Argus,  which 
delighted  our  childhood.  The  Nibelungcu  song  is 
more  like  this.  It  is  quite  as  much  Gothic  as  Grecian. 
By  the  way,  I  wish  that  Professor  Felton  Avould  give 
us  an  edition  of  the  Odyssey  uniform  with  his  Iliad. 
I  cannot  help  liking  it  the  better  of  the  two. 

PHILIP. 

We  should  never  look  below  the  best  for  a  standard, 
and  I  shall  keep  fast  hold  of  Milton  still.  The 
Drama,  in  its  highest  form,  the  Tragedy,  is  fitly  sym- 
bolled  by  the  Gothic,  having  its  fixed  rules  indeed,  but 
admitting  of  lyrical  adornment,  and  of  the  quaint 
corbels  of  humor  here  and  there,  leering,  perhaps, 
over  a  tomb,  the  proper  types  of  Shakespeare's  clown. 
The  Lyric,  again,  may  find  its  parallel  among  the  light 
and  graceful  buildings  of  the  Moors. 

JOHN. 

» 

We  have  dwelt  lono;  enough  among  these  sublima- 
tions,  almost  as  impalpable  as  the  Greek  poet's  "dream 
of  the  shadow  of  a  smoke."  It  is  well  enough  to 
shape  likenesses  in  the  changing  outlines  of  a  cloud ; 


120  THIRD  COXVERSATION. 

but  if  vre  embrace  one^  we  shall  only,   like   Ixion, 
beget  a  mouster. 

PHILIP. 

I  believe  that  you  have  been  seduced  from  your 
allegiance  solely  by  that  plausible  metaphor.  But  it 
Avill  betray  you  in  turn,  for  you  have  forgotten  that 
one  of  the  nephelid  offspring  of  that  Olympian  in- 
trigue was  the  instructor  of  the  greatest  heroes  of 
antiquity,  nay,  of  the  scientific  god  of  medicine  him- 
self. A  metaphor,  if  the  correspondence  be  perfect  in 
all  its  parts,  is  one  of  the  safest  guides  through  the 
labyrinth  of  truth ;  but,  should  there  chance  to  be  a 
break  in  the  thread,  we  are  left  without  a  clew  in  the 
more  inextricable  maze  into  which  we  have  suffered  it 
to  lead  us.  As  to  our  sublimations,  I  will  rebuke  you 
out  of  the  mouth  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  who  says,  "  I 
love  to  lose  myself  in  a  mystery  ;  to  pursue  my  reason 
to  an  0  Altitudo  !  " — to  which  I  heartily  assent. 

JOHN. 

If  poetry  be  not  out  of  place  in  the  train  of  these 
(shall  I  call  them  philosophical?)  refinements,  I  should 
be  glad  to  think  myself  a  day's  journey  nearer  to  the 
"golden  stroude"  of  the  dramatists. 

PHILIP. 

You  might  open  them  almost  anywhere,  and  find  an 
oracle  to  your  purpose.  True  poetry  is  never  out  of 
place,  nor  will  a  good  word  spoken  for  her  ever  fail 
of  some  willing  and  fruitful  ear.  Even  under  our 
thin  crust  of  fashion  and  frivolity  throb  the  undying 


t 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  121 

fires  of  the  great  soul  of  man,  the  fountain  and  centre 
of  all  poetry,  and  which  will  one  day  burst  forth  to 
wither  like  grass-blades  the  vain  temples  and  palaces 
which  forms  and  conventionalities  have  heaped 
smotheringly  upon  it.  Behind  the  blank  faces  of  the 
weak  and  thoughtless,  I  see,  sometimes  with  a  kind  of 
dread,  this  awful  and  mysterious  presence,  as  I  have 
seen  one  of  Allston's  paintings  in  a  ball-room,  over- 
looking with  its  serene  and  steadfast  eyes  the  butterfly 
throng  beneath,  and  seeming  to  gaze,  from  these 
narrow  battlements  of  time,  far  out  into  the  infinite 
promise  of  the  future,  beholding  there  the  free,  erect, 
and  perfected  soul. 

JOHX. 

Ah,  you  have  climbed  upon  the  saddle  of  your 
Pegasus  again,  and  will  leave  me  far  behind.  INIen- 
tion  poetry,  or  anti-slavery,  and  you  go  suddenly 
mad,  though  in  ordinary  matters  a  reasonable  fellow 
enough.  They  are  as  fruitful  a  text  to  you  as  the 
"  Kaim  o'  Kimprunes"  to  Mr.  Oldbuck.  I  like  your 
enthusiasm  very  well,  but  you  sometimes  jumble  them 
together  oddly  enough. 

PHILIP. 

You  forget  that  I  believe  the  poetical  sentiment  and 
what  we  call  the  sentiment  of  natural  relision  to  be 
identical.  Both  of  them  are  life-members  of  the  New 
England  Anti-Slavery  Society.  You  are,  at  heart,  as 
much  an  Abolitionist  as  I ;  and  if  you  were  not,  I 
should  suspect  the  purity  of  my  own  principles,  if  they 
built  uj)  a  wall  between  me  and  my  brother.     No  sin- 


122  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

cere  desire  of  doing  good  ueed  make  au  enemy  of  a 
single  human  being ;  for  that  is  a  capacity  in  which 
he  is  by  natnre  unfitted  to  shine.  It  may,  and  must, 
rouse  opposition  ;  but  that  philanthropy  has  surely  a 
flaw  in  it,  Avhich  cannot  sympathize  with  the  ojipressor 
equally  as  with  the  oppressed.  /  It  is  the  high  and 
glorious  vocation  of  Poesy  as  well  to  make  our  own 
daily  life  and  toil  more  beautiful  and  holy  to  us  by 
the  divine  ministerings  of  love,  as  to  render  us  swift 
to  convey  the  same  blessing  to  our  brother.  Poesy  is 
love's  chosen  apostle,  and  the  very  almoner  of  God. 
She  is  the  home  of  the  outcast  and  the  w^ealth  of  the 
needy.  For  her  the  hut  becomes  a  palace,  whose  halls 
are  guarded  by  the  gods  of  Phidias,  and  kept  peaceful 
by  the  maid-mothers  of  Raphael.  She  loves  better 
the  poor  wanderer  whose  bare  feet  know  by  heart  all 
the  freezing  stones  of  the  pavement,  than  the  delicate 
maiden  for  whose  dainty  soles  Brussels  and  Turkey 
have  been  over-careful ;  and  I  doubt  not  but  some  re- 
membered scrap  of  childish  song  hath  often  been  a 
truer  alms  than  all  the  benevolent  societies  could  give. 
She  is  the  best  missionary,  knowing  when  she  may 
knock  at  the  door  of  the  most  curmudgeonly  hearts, 
without  being  turned  away  unheard^  The  omnipres- 
ence of  her  spirit  is  beautifully  and  touchingly  ex- 
pressed in  "The  Poet,"  one  of  the  divisions  of  a  little 
volume  of  poems  by  Cornelius  Mathews.  Were  the 
whole  book  as  simple  in  thought  and  diction  as  the 
most  of  this  particular  poem,  I  know  few  modern 
volumes  that  would  equal  it.  Let  me  read  you  the 
passage  I  alluded  to.  You  will  see  that  the  poor  slave 
is  not  forofotten. 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  123 

"There  sits  not  on  the  wilderness's  edge. 

In  the  dusk  lodges  of  the  wintry  North, 
Nor  couches  in  the  rice-field's  slimy  sedge, 

Nor  on  the  cold,  wide  waters  ventures  forth, — 
Who  waits  not,  in  the  pauses  of  his  toil, 

"With  hope  that  spirits  in  the  air  may  sing; 
"Who  upward  turns  not  at  propitious  times, 

Breathless  his  silent  features  listening, 
In  desert  and  in  lodge,  on  marsh  and  main. 
To  feed  his  hungry  heart  and  conquer  pain." 

JOHN. 

Worthy  of  the  fine  imagination  and  the  classic  taste 
of  Collins ;  though  he  would  have  found  fault,  I  sus- 
jject,  with  the  assonance  of  "sits  not"  and  "waits 
not,"  coming  in  as  they  do,  also,  in  the  same  place  in 
their  respective  verses.  But  these  are  trifles.  No 
man  ought  to  stop,  looking  for  motes  in  such  a  beaker 
of  pure  Hippocrene  as  this.  These  lines  express  a 
truth,  and,  in  such  utterances,  the  mind  does  not  linger 
daintily  picking  choice  phrase,  as  it  does  for  the  deck- 
ing out  of  a  fancy.  Truth  comes  huddling  forth  like 
molten  iron,  which,  though  it  be  beautified  by  the 
little  swarms  of  bee-like  sparks  which  hover  around 
it,  yet  runs  into  the  nearest  channel  and  there  soon 
hardens,  taking  the  chance  shape  of  its  mould. 

PHILIP. 

Those  verses  do,  indeed,  express  a  truth.  The  love 
of  the  beautiful  and  true,  like  the  dew-drop  in  the 
heart  of  the  crystal,  remains  for  ever  clear  and  liquid 
in  the  inmost  shrine  of  man's  being,  though  all  the 
rest  be  turned  to  stone  by  sorrow  and  degradation. 
The  angel,  who  has  once  come  down  into  the  soul,  will 


124  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

not  be  driven  theucc  by  any  sin  or  baseness  even,  mnch 
less  by  any  undeserved  oppression  or  wrong.  At  the 
soul's  gate  sits  she  silently,  with  folded  hands  and 
downcast  eyes  ;  but,  at  the  least  touch  of  nobleness, 
those  patient  orbs  are  serenely  uplifted,  and  the  whole 
spirit  is  lightened  with  their  prayerful  lustre.  Over 
all  life  broods  Poesy,  like  the  calm,  blue  sky  with  its 
motherly  rebuking  face.  She  is  the  true  preacher  of 
the  Word  ;  and  when,  in  time  of  danger  and  trouble, 
the  established  shepherds  have  cast  down  their  crooks 
and  fled,  she  tenderly  careth  for  the  flock.  On  her 
calm  and  fearless  heart  rests  weary  Freedom,  when  all 
the  world  have  driven  her  from  the  door  with  scoflfs 
and  mockin2;s.  From  her  white  breasts  flows  the 
strong  milk  which  nurses  our  heroes  and  martyrs;  and 
she  blunts  the  sharp  tooth  of  the  fire,  makes  the  axe 
edeeless,  and  dignifies  the  pillory  or  the  gallows.  She 
is  the  great  reformer,  and  where  the  love  of  her  is 
strong  and  healthy,  wickedness  and  wrong  cannot  long 
prevail.  The  more  this  love  is  cultivated  and  refined, 
the  more  do  men  strive  to  make  their  outward  lives 
rhythmical  and  harmonious,  that  they  may  accord 
with  that  inward  and  dominant  rhythm  by  whose  key 
the  composition  of  all  noble  and  worthy  deeds  is 
guided.  To  make  one  object,  in  'outward  or  inward 
nature,  more  holy  to  a  single  heart  is  reward  enough 
for  a  life  ;  for,  the  more  sympathies  we  gain  or  awaken 
for  what  is  beautiful,  by  so  much  deeper  will  be  our 
sympathy  for  that  which  is  most  beautiful, — the  human 
soul.  Love  never  contracts  its  circles ;  they  widen  by 
as  fixed  and  sure  a  law  as  those  around  a  pebble  cast 
into  still  water.     The  angel  of  love,  when,  full  of  sor- 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  125 

row,  lie  followed  the  first  exiles,  behiiKl  whom  the 
gates  of  Paradise  shut  with  that  mournful  clang,  of 
which  some  faiut  echo  has  liiigeixd  in  the  hearts  of  all 
their  offspring,  unwittingly  snapped  off  and  brought 
away  in  his  hand  the  seed-pod  of  one  of  the  never-fad- 
ing flowers  which  grew  there.  Into  all  dreary  and 
desolate  places  fell  some  of  its  blessed  kernels;  they 
asked  but  little  soil  to  root  themselves  in,  and  in  this 
narrow  patch  of  our  poor  clay  they  sprang  most  quickly 
and  sturdily.  Gladly  they  grew,  and  from  them  all 
time  has  been  sown  with  whatever  gives  a  higher  hope 
to  the  soul,  or  makes  life  nobler  and  more  godlike ; 
while,  from  the  over-arching  sky  of  Poesy,  sweet  dew 
for  ever  falls  to  nurse  and  keep  them  green  and  fresh 
from  the  world's  dust. 

JOHN. 

If  a  drop  or  two  from  the  phial  of  my  unassisted 
reason,  which  you,  I  fear,  would  leave  in  some  dark 
corner  upon  the  shelf,  while  you  are  playing  off  your 
experiments  with  the  brighter-hued  fluids  of  the  lab- 
oratory, be  competent  to  precipitate  the  theory  which 
you  have  dissolved  in  so  splendid  a  commixture,  I 
should  guess  that  your  notion  of  the  good  influence  of 
poetry  amounts  simply  to  this, — that  it  maintains  the 
sway  of  the  heart  over  the  intellect.  The  intellect  has 
only  one  failing,  which,  to  be  sure,  is  a  very  consider- 
able one;  it  has  no  conscience.  Napoleon  is  the 
readiest  instance  of  this.  If  his  heart  had  borne  any 
proportion  to  his  brain,  he  had  been  one  of  the  greatest 
men  in  all  history.  As  it  is,  his  triumphs  are  of  the 
intellect  merely,  Mhich  memory,  iudeed  may  wonder 


126  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

at,  but  M'ill  never  love.  He  will  go  down  to  posterity 
as  a  deformity ;  like  one  of  those  hideous  caricatures  in 
plaster  of  which  his  countrymen  are  so  fond,  (a  notice- 
able fact,  by  the  way,  and  illustrative  of  national  cha- 
racter,) whose  chief  characteristic  is  a  monstrous  head 
out  of  all  proportion  to  the  other  members.  That  ath- 
letic intellect,  its  huge  muscles  hardened  and  tutored 
by  long  training,  and  grim  with  the  proud  dust  of 
imnumbered  victories  in  the  wrestling-ring,  became 
weak  as  a  child  in  the  grip  of  the  sturdy,  honest  heart 
of  England.  Whatever  magnanimity  he  has  shown 
has  in  it  an  ugly,  corrupting  spot  of  forethought,  and 
seems  rather  the  result  of  intention  than  of  instinct  ; 
as  if  he  were  constraining  himself  into  a  heroic  atti- 
tude, to  be  modelled  in  a  statue  for  posteritv. 

The  intellect  can  never  be  great,  save  in  pupilage  to 
the  heart.  Xay,  it  can  never  be  truly  strong  but  so. 
It  suspects  and  mistrusts  itself  at  every  turn,  and  gives 
way  ignominously  at  last.  It  sole  lust  is  for  power, 
won  it  matters  not  how,  and  of  whatever  kind  or  de- 
gree. And  it  cheats  itself,  too,  fancying  its  straw  a 
spear  like  a  weaver's  beam,  and  strutting  ridiculous 
with  its  twig  sceptre  and  paper  crown.  It  is  because 
politics  have  been  regarded  as  an  intellectual  science, 
that  they  have  become  so  proverbially  dishonest.  The 
politicians  juggle  on,  buying  power  at  any  rate,  till  the 
great  lubberly  national  conscience,  which  their  buzz- 
ings  have  lulled  asleep,  wakens  with  a  portentous 
yawn,  and  brushes  the  whole  infesting  swarm  into 
blank  oblivion.  Could  we  but  find  a  statesman  with 
a  poet's  eye!     Burke  had  but  a  narrow  miss  of  it. 

It  is  only  the  intellect  that  can  be  thoroughlv  and 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  127 

hideously  wicked.  It  can  forget  everything  in  the 
attainment  of  its  ends.  The  heart  recoils;  in  its 
retired  places  some  drops  of  childh(K)d's  dew  still 
linger,  defying  manhood's  fiery  noon  ;  it  remembers  ; 
it  forecasts ;  it  dares  not  leap  the  black  chasm  of  the 
life  to  come.  The  intellect  is  haunted  in  its  lonely 
moments  by  its  weird  sisters,  whose  promises  of  sway 
entice  it  on  from  one  foul  deed  to  another. — What  an 
intellect  was  Napoleon's  !  He  was  the  Goethe  of  the 
throne  and  the  camp.  And  that  huge  structure  which 
he  piled  with  such  wasteful  pains  was  but  like  the 
winter  palaces  of  the  Czar,  being  reared  by  the  intel- 
lect alone,  of  its  icy  blocks,  crystal,  far-shining,  yet  no 
match  for  the  silent  eye  of  that  all-beholding  sun  of 
mankind's  moral  sense.  What  pang  of  the  world's 
sore-distressed  heart  did  he  make  the  lighter?  What 
gleam  of  sunshine  streamed  into  the  dim  hovel  of  our 
race  the  more  freely  and  bounteously  for  him  ? 

The  great  intellect  dies  with  its  possessor ;  the  great 
heart,  though  his  name  iu  whose  breast  it  had  its  ebb 
and  flow  be  buried  in  the  mouldered  past,  survives  for 
ever,  beckoning  kindred  natures  to  deeds  of  heroic 
trust  and  self-sacrifice.  Is  Luther  dead  while  Garrison 
still  lives?  The  intellect  would  fain  bargain  with  and 
outwit  the  future  ;  the  heart  buys  acceptance  of  it  with 
a  simple  smile.  This,  then,  is  the  great  errand  of  the 
poet;  to  keep  alive  our  fealty  to  the  heart,  and,  even 
when  it  has  been  banished  by  the  usurping  intellect, 
to  rouse  our  loyalty  with  the  despised,  and  therefore 
unmolested,  persuasion  of  a  song. 


128  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

PHILIP. 
What  you  say  is  true.  The  intellect,  so  it  be  at 
"work,  cares  not  much  for  what  end.  It  is  for  ever 
moulding  with  its  restless  fingers  the  clay  within  its 
reach,  and  shapes  with  almost  equal  pleasure  an  Apollo 
or  a  Priapus.  But  they  err  who  assert  that  what  we 
humanly  call  great  must  of  need  be  virtuous.  For 
the  intellect  may  seduce  the  heart,  and  so,  even  by 
wicked  means,  create  something  that  shall  last.  This 
was  the  case  with  Voltaire,  whose  omnipotent  sneer, 
evil  in  itself,  did  good  as  well  as  evil.  To  me,  one  of 
the  most  interesting  relics  of  Napoleon  is  that  table- 
talk  of  his  in  his  island-jail.  A  kind  of  Coleridge- 
Machiavel,  he  says  something  noticeable  about  every- 
thing, scrawling  the  aphoristic  commentaries  of  a 
general  with  the  cramped  precision  of  an  orderly-ser- 
geant.— Well,  a  conversation  is  like  a  Classical  Dic- 
tionary, where,  at  the  end  of  every  subject,  a  vide 
directs  you  to  some  other,  till  you  might  as  well 
attempt  to  read  Hesiod's  stupid  Theogony.  Let  us 
come  back  to  our  old  Dramatists. 

jonx. 
The  old  English  Dramatists !  with  what  a  vague 
feeling  of  pride  and  reverence  do  I  utter  those  four 
words !  Entering  the  enchanted,  and  to  mo  almost 
untraveled,  realm  which  they  "  rule  as  their  demense," 
I  feel  like  the  awestruck  Goth,  when  his  eyes  dro])ped 
beneath  the  reverend  aspects  of  the  Roman  senate,  and 
lie  concluded  them  an  assembly  of  gods ;  or  more  like 
him  who,  in  searching  the  w'iudings  of  a  cavern,  came 
suddenly  upon  King  Arthur  and  his  knights,  seated, 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  129 

as  of  yore,  about  the  renowned  rountl-table.  Sileut 
aud  severe  they  sit,  those  men  of"  tlie  old  fearless  time, 
and  gaze  with  stern  eyes  upon  the  womanly  new- 
comer whose  limbs  have  never  been  galled  by  the 
weary  harness,  aud  whose  soft  arm  has  never  held  the 
lance  in  rest. 

PHILIP. 

Yes;  we  feel,  when  we  come  among  them,  as  if 
their  joys  and  sorrows  were  on  a  more  Titanic  scale 
than  those  of  our  day.  It  seems  as  if  we  had  never 
suffered  and  never  acted,  and  yet  we  feel  a  noble  spur 
and  willingness  to  endure  and  to  do.  They  show  us 
the  dignity  and  strength  of  the  soul,  and,  after  reading 
them,  the  men  we  see  in  the  streets  look  nobler  and 
more  manlike,  and  we  find  more  brotherhood  in  their 
before  unanswering  faces.  Their  works  stand  among 
those  of  the  moderns  like  the  temples  aud  altars  of  the 
ancient  dwellers  on  this  continent  among  the  rude 
hovels  of  a  race  of  descendants  ignorant  of  their  use 
and  origin.  Let  iis  muse  awhile  in  this  city  of  tiie 
past,  and  sketch  roughly  some  of  the  mighty  monu- 
ments yet  standing  therein. 

JOHN. 
It  is  a  little  strange  that  the  English,  all  of  whose 
glorious  past  belongs  equally  to  us,  should  pity  us  for 
having  no  antiquity  to  look  back  upon,  as  if  that,  even 
were  it  true,  would  preclude  us  from  having  poets. 
Besides  sharing  their  own  history  and  tradition  Ayitli 
them,  we  can  also  claim  our  share  in  the  ancientry  of 
this,  our  adopted  hemisphere,  and  point  to  monuments, 

9 


130  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

set  by  which  their  idle  Druid-stones  are  but  things  of 
an  hour  ago.  Not  that  the  poet  needs  any  such  ob- 
scurities to  grope  in,  or  desires  a  greater  antiquity  than 
that  of  his  own  heart,  in  which  are  written  the  same 
wondrous  oracles,  uncertain,  yet  not  past  finding  out, 
of  which  all  his  brethren  from  Eden  downward  have 
deciphered  but  a  few  lines.  Wherever  Shakespeare 
lays  his  plots,  that  ruddy  English  heart  of  his  was  the 
true  meridian,  whence  the  degrees  of  latitude  and 
longitude  were  numbered.  Paradise  and  pandemo- 
nium both  found  room  enough  with  Milton  in  that 
little  house  in  the  Artillery  Walk.  The  poet  who 
leans  upon  the  crumbling  arm  of  Eld  will  never  him- 
self become  a  part  of  history.  When  he  crossed  the 
threshold  of  his  own  heart,  he  left  his  strength  behind 
him  ;  and,  in  proportion  as  he  wanders  farther  thence, 
he  becomes  remote  from  the  hearts  of  all  his  kind ;  his 
words  become  a  dim  nmrmur,  with  no  articulate  sylla- 
ble to  claim  attention  from  the  ear. — But  I  interrupt. 


PHILIP. 

You  interrupt  well.  In  the  old  dramatists  there  is 
the  beauty  of  health,  strength,  and  invincible  sincerity. 
Sorrow  there  is,  as  there  is  in  life ;  but  it  is  a  sorrow 
that  sympathizes  with  every  human  being,  and  is  too 
genuine  to  be  warped  into  a  selfish  and  gloomy  misan- 
thropy. They  wrote  before  the  good  English  word, 
feeling,  had  whined  itself  into  the  French  one,  senti- 
ment. They  were  too  hardy  to  need  shelter  themselves 
in  the  soft  cloak  of  sentimentalism,  and  thought  it  a 
worthier  and  more  poetical  ambition  to  emulate  the 


CHAPMAN.  131 

angels  in  love  than  the  devils  iu  scorn  and  hate. 
Byronism  would  have  stood  with  numbed  limbs  and 
chattering  teeth,  in  the  sharp,  bracing  mountain-air  in 
which  alone  their  lungs  could  find  free  play.  Yet 
there,  amid  the  bare,  majestic  rocks,  bloom  tender  Al- 
pine-flowers of  delicatest  hue  and  rarest  fragrance,  and 
the  sturdy  moss  creeps  everywhere  with  its  heartfelt 
green,  which,  even  iu  cloudy  weather,  looks  as  if  it 
had    garnered  up  in  itself  a  store  of  sunshine. 

I  shall  make  my  first  selections  from  George  Chap- 
man, author  of  the  best  translation  of  Homer,  and  the 
friend  of  Spenser,  Shakespeare,  Marlow,  and  other  great 
spirits  of  his  day.  I  shall  Iread  to  you  only  those  pas- 
sages which  have  pleased  nie  the  most  heartily,  leaving 
you  to  suppose  at  the  same  time  that  I  leave  unread  a 
thousand  as  good,  which  do  not  happen  to  fit  my  hu- 
mor as  well.  I  shall  punctuate  and  emphasize,  and 
even  change  a  syllable,  or  the  order  in  which  it  stands, 
to  please  my  own  judgment  and  ear. 

JOHN. 

I  like  your  declaration  of  independence,  for  I  have 
generally  found,  when  my  reading  has  led  me  that  way, 
that  the  labors  of  editors  and  commentators  were  like 
the  wind  Csecias, — whose  quality  it  was,  according  to 
Aristotle,  to  gather  clouds,  rather  than  to  dispel  them. 

PHILIP. 

Chapman  is  a  very  irregular  writer.  I  might  liken 
him  to  a  hoodwinked  eagle,  which  sometimes,  led  by 
an  ungovernable  prompting  of  instinctive  freedom, 
soars  far  up  into  the  clear  ether  of  song,  and  floats 


132  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

majestical  on  level  wings  where  this  world,  with  its 
fret  and  turmoil,  shows  in  the  blue  distance  only  as  a 
silent  star ;  and  which,  as  suddenly,  will  dash  down 
again,  and  almost  stun  himself  against  the  noisy  and 
dusty  earth.  This  is  very  natural  in  one  of  so  impul- 
sive a  temperament.  His  impetuosity  is  continually 
bursting  out  in  hot  jets,  like  little  geysers,  which  often 
carry  the  mud  and  stones  along  Avith  them  toward 
heaven.  So  eager  is  he  to  give  vent  to  a  favorite 
thought  or  image,  that  he  does  not  sufficiently  heed  the 
intermediate  steps,  plunging  along  through  mud  and 
brambles  till  he  reach  his  object.  He  has  little  dra- 
matic power, — that  mesmerism  by  Avhich  Shakespeare 
makes  his  characters  speak  and  act  his  own  thoughts, 
without  letting  his  own  individuality  appear  in  the 
matter, — and  his  plays,  taken  as  wholes,  are  not  very 
interesting ;  but  they  abound  in  grand  lines,  and  im- 
ages full  of  antique  and  majestic  port.  In  didactic 
and  moral  passages,  he  comes  nearer  to  Shakespeare 
than  does  any  one  of  his  contemporaries. 

JOHN. 

I  think  I  have  seen  Chapman  somewhere  charged 
with  bombast,  and  with  some  show  of  truth,  if  I  may 
trust  some  passages  quoted. 

PHILIP. 

The  accusation  was  probably  laid  by  some  critic  who 
could  pardon  nothing  which  rose  above  the  dead  marsh- 
level  of  Pope.  He  is  rugged  enough  sometimes,  but 
seldom  turgid.  When  his  mind  has  once  taken  a  turn 
ixi  any  direction,  it  receives  tributary  streams  and  run- 


CHAPMAN.  133 

nels  from  every  sklc,  till  it  foams  and  rushes  along 
with  the  turbulent  force  of  a  swollen  river.  There 
are  some  minds  to  which  all  true  poetry  seems  inflated, 
— commonwealths,  from  which  poets  are  excluded  with- 
out the  artificial  help  of  a  Platonic  edict.  The  mass  of 
men  are  so  fallen  from  a  true  state  of  nature,  that 
whatever  would  fain  recall  them  to  it,  or  presupposes 
it,  seems  ridiculous  and  unnatural.  Read  Milton  aloud 
on  the  Exchange,  and  you  would  be  laughed  at,  as 
much  for  what  you  read,  as  for  reading  at  all.  The 
multitude  take  the  expression  of  something  they  have 
never  felt  for  an  absurdity  or  an  affectation,  or  worse. 
So  it  is  if  they  hear  anything  which  strokes  their  prej- 
udices the  wrong  way.  When  the  king  of  Denmark 
sent  missionaries  to  convert  the  Malabariaus,  the  Brah- 
mins expressed  their  entire  satisfaction  with  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  Christian  religion,  except  inasmuch  as  it 
allowed  its  believers  to  eat  cow's  flesh  and  to  spit. 
An  intelligent  Turk,  who  should  come  to  this  country 
with  our  Declaration  of  Independence  in  his  head,  would 
be  delighted  and  surprised  to  find  that  a  man  may 
carry  out  in  his  practice  almost  any  doctrine,  save  the 
main  one  which  that  instrument  inculcates,  without 
any  fear  of  Autocrat  Mob.  He  may  preach  despotism 
and  be  respectable,  Mahometanism  and  he  would  be 
run  after  ;  but  if  he  preaches  Anti-slavery,  he  loses 
caste  at  once.  To  us,  on  the  other  hand,  this  seems 
highly  natural  and  proper. 

JOHN. 

God's  livery  is  a  very  plain  one ;  but  its  wearers 
have  good  reason  to  be  content.     If  it  have  not  so 


134  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

much  gold  lace  about  it  as  Satan's,  it  keeps  out  foul 
weather  better,  and  is  besides  a  great  deal  cheaper. — I 
do  not  think  that  you  do  Pope  justice.  His  transla- 
tion of  Homer  is  as  bad  as  it  can  be,  I  admit ;  but 
surely  you  cannot  deny  the  merit  of  lively  and  inge- 
nious fancy  to  his  "  Rape  of  the  Lock,"  nor  of  know- 
ledge of  life,  and  a  certain  polished  classicalness  to  his 
Epistles  and  Satires.  His  portraits  are  like  those  of 
Copley,  of  fine  gentlemen  and  ladies,  whose  silks  and 
satins  are  the  best  part  of  them. 

PHILIP. 

I  cannot  allow  the  parallel.  In  Copley's  best  pict- 
ures, the  drapery,  though  you  may  almost  hear  it 
rustle,  is  wholly  a  subordinate  matter.  Witness  some 
of  those  in  Our  college-hall  here  at  Cambridge,  that  of 
Madam  Boylston  especially.  I  remember  being  once 
much  struck  with  the  remark  of  a  friend,  who  con- 
vinced me  of  the  fact,  that  Coj)ley  avoided  the  painting 
of  wigs  wherever  he  could,  thus  getting  a  step  nearer 
nature.  Pope  would  have  made  them  a  prominent 
object.  I  grant  what  you  say  about  the  "  Rape  of  the 
Lock ;"  but  this  does  not  prove  that  Pope  was  a  poet. 
If  you  wish  an  instance  of  a  'pocVs  fancy,  look  into 
the  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream."  I  can  allow  that 
Pope  has  written  what  is  entertaining,  but  surely  not 
poetical.  Show  me  a  line  that  makes  you  love  God 
and  your  neighbor  better,  that  inclines  you  to  meek- 
ness, charity,  and  forbearance,  and  I  will  show  you  a 
hundred  that  make  it  easier  for  you  to  be  the  odious 
reverse  of  all  these.  In  many  a  pagan  poet  there  is 
more  Christianity.     No  poet  could  write  a  "  Dunciad/' 


CHAPMAN.  135 

or  even  read  it.  You  have  persuaded  yourself  into 
thinking  Pope  a  poot,  as,  iu  looking  for  a  long  time  at 
a  stick  wliicli  we  believe  to  be  an  animal  of  some  kind, 
we  fancy  that  it  is  stirring.  His  letters  are  amusing, 
but  do  not  increase  one's  respect  for  him.  "When  vou 
speak  of  his  being  classical,  I  am  sure  that  you  jest. 
Your  favorite,  Collins,  is  truly  a  classical  writer.  For 
classicahiess  does  not  consist  in  any  amount  of  Latin 
and  Greek,  nor  in  a  body-snatching  of  dead  forms  of 
expression  or  belief.  It  is  only  the  plain  simplicity 
of  a  gentleman.  A  scholarly  air  of  quiet  and  repose, 
an  easy  dignity,  and  an  unstrained  grace  pervade  it. 
It  may  consist  with  the  highest  gifts  of  the  imagina- 
tion, as  in  tlie  delightful  poet  I  have  mentioned.  The 
critics,  by  a  strange  kind  of  metonymy,  have  applied 
it  chiefly  to  the  curious  insipidities  of  the  dull,  or  the 
mechanic  inspirations  of  the  pedantic.  Chapman, 
though  a  fine  scholar,  is  in  no  wise  classical.  His 
merriment  is  quite  too  boisterous,  and  his  enthusiasm 
too  unrestrained.  AV^hen  we  read  a  classical  poet,  we 
feel  as  if  we  had  entered  a  marble  temple  Avhere  a  cool 
silence  reigns ;  a  few  quiet  statues  gleam  around  us, 
pure  and  naked ;  a  few  short  inscriptions  tell  of  the 
deeds  of  heroes  ;  all  is  calm,  grand,  and  simple  to  the 
highest  perfection  of  art.  But  if  Chapman  be  not 
classical,  he  has  the  higher  merit  of  earnestness,  sin- 
cerity, and  rugged  heartiness,  not  without  some  touches, 
here  and  there,  of  graceful  tenderness  and  fierce  sub- 
limity. Now  let  me  read  to  you  the  ojicning  of 
"  Bussy  D'Ambois,"  a  tragedy. 


136  THIRD   CONVERSATION. 

^^Eater  BussY  D'Ambois  in  mean  apparel. 
"  Fortune,  not  reason,  rules  the  state  of  things : 
Reward  goes  backward  ;  honor  on  his  head 
"Who  is  not  poor  is  monstrous ;  only  need 
Gives  form  and  worth  to  every  human  seed. 
As  cedars  beaten  Avith  continual  storms, 
So  great  men  flourish  ;  and  do  imitate 
Unskilful  statuaries,  who  suppose 
(In  forming  a  Colossus),  if  they  make  him 
Straddle  enough,  strut,  and  look  big  and  gape, 
Their  work  is  goodly ;  so  men  merely  great 
In  their  affected  gravity  of  voice, 
Sourness  of  countenance,  manners,  cruelty, 
Authority,  wealth,  and  all  the  spawn  of  fortune, 
Think  they  bear  all  the  kingdom's  worth  before  them ; 
Yet  differ  not  from  those  Colossic  statues. 
Which,  with  heroic  form  without  o'erepread. 
Within  are  naught  but  mortar,  flint,  and  lead. 
Man  is  a  torch  borne  in  the  wind  ;  a  dream 
But  of  a  shadow,  summed  with  all  his  substance ; 
And,  as  great  seamen,  using  all  their  wealth 
And  skills  in  Neptune's  deep,  invisible  paths. 
In  tall  ships  richly  built  and  ribbed  with  brass, 
To  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  world, — 
When  they  have  done  it,  coming  near  their  haven, 
Are  fain  to  give  a  warning-piece,  and  call 
A  poor,  stayed  fisherman,  that  never  passed 
His  country's  sight,  to  waft  and  guide  them  in  ; — 
So,  when  we  wander  fiirthest  through  the  waves 
Of  glass}'  glory  and  the  gulfs  of  state. 
Topped  with  all  titles,  spreading  all  our  reaches, 
As  if  each  private  arm  would  sphere  the  earth, 
We  must  to  virtue  for  her  guide  resort. 
Or  we  shall  shipwreck  in  our  safest  poil." 


JOHN. 

I  can  hardly  persuade  myself  that  the  grand  meta- 
phor of  the  torch  did  not  come  from  Hebrew  lips.     I 


CHAPMAN.  137 

know  DO  other  image  that  would  po  well  express  tlie 
fickleness  and  uncertainty  of  our  hold  on  life  as  this. 
The  likening  of  virtue,  too,  to  the  poor,  stayed  fisher- 
man that  had  never  been  out  of  his  country's  sight  is 
very  sweet.  With  the  first  part  of  the  passage  you 
read  I  was  rather  disappointed.  Jkit  the  last  made 
up  for  all. 

PHILIP. 

I  read  it  that  the  contrast  might  be  the  greater,  and 
also  to  give  you  a  specimen  of  his  language.  He  does 
not,  you  see,  pick  his  words  much.  He  was  in  haste 
to  get  to  the  last  half  of  his  soliloquy,  where  he  had 
something  to  say  that  pleased  him  better.  You  will 
find  that  he  himself  resembles  those  "  unskilful  statu- 
aries" not  a  little  sometimes.  The  length  and  in- 
tricacy even,  of  the  last  comparison  in  what  I  read 
pleases  me,  perhaps  from  its  putting  me  in  mind  so 
much  of  the  golden-mouthed  Jeremy  Taylor.  But 
Taylor  always  begins  his  similes  with  a  "  so  have  I 
seen,"  which  gives  great  liveliness  and  force  to  them. 

JOHN. 

Do  you  remember  one? 

PHILIP. 

Many ;  who  that  had  ever  read  one  could  forget  it? 

"  For  so  have  I  seen  a  lark,  rising  from  his  bed  of  grass  ar.d 
soaring  upward,  singing  as  he  rises,  and  hopes  to  get  to  heaven, 
and  climb  above  the  clouds ;  but  the  poor  bird  was  beaten  back 
with  the  loud  sighings  of  an  eastern  wind,  and  his  motion  made 
irregular  and  unconstant,  descending  more  at  every  breath  of  the 


138  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

tempest  than  he  could  recover  by  the  liberation  and  frequent 
weighing  of  his  wings  ;  till  the  little  creature  was  forced  to  sit  down 
and  pant,  and  stay  till  the  storm  was  over,  and  did  rue  and  sincj  as 
if  he  had  learned  music  and  motion  of  an  angel  as  he  passed  sometimes 
through  the  air  about  his  ministries  here  below ;  so  are  the  prayers  of 
a  good  man."  * 

JOHN. 

What  a  jwet's  eye,  and  heart,  and  tongue!  How 
lovingly  he  speaks  of  the  ''poor  bird"  and  the  "  little 
creature,"  and  what  a  soaring  melody  there  is  in  the 
ending  !  Shelley's  "  Skylark,"  almost  perfect  as  it  is, 
has  not  the  fluttering  rise  and  the  ecstatic  gush  of  this. 
No  lark  ever  shook  fresher  dew  from  his  winirs. 

o 

PHILIP. 

I  will  give  you  one  more. 

"  But  so  have  I  seen  the  returning  sea  enter  upon  the  strand, 
and  the  waters,  rolling  toward  the  shore,  throw  up  little  portions 
of  the  tide,  and  retire,  as  if  nature  meant  to  play,  and  not  to 
change  the  abode  of  waters ;  but  still  the  flood  crept  by  little  step- 
pings,  and  invaded  more  by  his  progressions  than  he  lost  by  his 
retreat,  and  having  told  the  number  of  his  steps,  he  possesses  his 
new  portion  till  the  Angel  calls  him  back,  that  he  may  leave  his 
unfaithful  dwelling  of  the  sand:  so  is  the  pardon  of  our  sins."t 

I  have  quoted  two  of  his  comparisons  to  please  you ; 
let  me  quote  one  passage  more  to  please  myself. 

"  No  man  knows,  but  he  that  loves  his  children,  how  many  de- 
licious accents  make  a  man's  heart  danca  in  the  pretty  conversa- 
tion of  those  dear  pledges ;  their  childishness,  their  stammering, 
their  little  angers,  their  innocences,  their  imperfections,  their  ne- 
cessities, are  so  many  little  emanations  of  joy  and  comfort  to  him 
that  delights  in  their  persons  and  society."^ 

*  Twenty-five  Sermons  i)reached  at  Golden  Grove,  Sermon  V., 
p.  60.     Edit.  1653. 

t  Sermon  VIII.,  p.  97.  %  Sermon  XVIII.,  p.  236. 


CHAP.VAN.  139 

How  I  love  that  dingy  old  folio,  with  its  huge 
himps  of  Greek  and  Latin,  its  quaintncss(>s,  its  meta- 
physical refinements,  its  tender  sym])atliies,  and,  above 
all,  its  radiant  piety,  and  the  poetry  which  springs  out 
of  it,  goldening  the  whole  !  I  can  never  help  looking 
upon  Tavlor  as  the  last  of  that  noble  line  of  poets  who 
consecrated  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth  century. 

Chapman  loves  to  draw  his  heroes  of  a  defiant  and 
indomitable  spirit,  and  with  a  thorough  contempt  of 
all  fooleries  and  shams.  I  suspect  that  he  has  uncon- 
sciously given  us  a  glimpse  of  his  own  nature.  In  his 
translation  of  the  lUiad,  he  is  said  to  show  a  great 
partiality  to  the  rough,  straightforward  Ajax,  and  to 
eke  out  his  speeches  here  and  there,  with  a  little  added 
fire  of  his  own.  Of  this  spirit  here  is  a  specimen. 
The  king's  brother,  who  wishes  to  gain  over  to  his  own 
interest  so  brave  a  man  as  D'Ambois,  finds  him  lying 
on  the  ground,  and  says  to  him  : 

"Turned  to  earth,  alive? 
Up  man  !  the  sun  shines  on  thee. 

"  D'Ambois.     Let  it  shine  ; 
I  am  no  mote  to  play  in  't,  as  great  men  are." 

So,  when  D'Ambois  is  killed,  he  says  proudly,  that 

"  Death  and  Destiny 
Come  behind  D' Amboif," 

as  if  even  they  feared  to  face  him.  But  you  will  see 
enough  of  this  in  all  the  passages  I  shall  read  to  you. 
— Xo  man  ever  had  a  larger  or  nobler  idea  of  the 
might  and  grandeur  of  the  human  soul  than  Chapman. 
He  had  a  great  deal  of  that  exulting  feeling  of  strength 


140  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

and  self-help  which  contemporaries  endeavor  to  par- 
alyze by  calling  it  conceit,  but  which  the  heart  of  pos- 
terity swells  over  as  the  instinct  and  stamp  of  great- 
ness. It  is  a  something  which  we  find  iu  the  lives  of 
all  great  men ;  a  recollection,  as  it  were,  of  wings, 
which  enables  them,  in  the  words  of  Marvell, 

"  Remembering  still  their  former  height," 

to  rise  above  these  lower  regions  of  turmoil  into  a 
clearer  and  screner  air.  It  is  a  feeling  of  trustfulness, 
which  is  needful  to  those  who  dare  to  cast  their  seed 
upon  these  waves  of  time,  that  it  may  float  down  and 
come  to  fruitage  iu  eternity,  and  who  gladly  put  by 
the  harlot  blandishments  of  to-day,  (so  bewitching  to 
small  souls,)  and  find  their  strength  and  solace  in  the 
approving  and  prophetic  eyes  of  that  infinite  to-morrow 
on  whose  great  heart  they  rest  secure, 

"  Feeling,  through  all  this  fleshy  dress, 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness."  * 

JOHN. 

Yes;  such  feelings  are  the  ravens  which  God  sends 
to  feed  these  prophets  in  the  wilderness  of  an  unrecog- 
nizing  world;  they  may  seem  but  unsightly,  ill-boding 
birds  to  everybody  else,  but  to  those  whom  they  sus- 
tain they  appear  gentle  as  doves.  God's  messengers 
always  look  like  shabby  fellows  to  the  rest  of  the 
world,  and  often  are  not  recognized,  even  by  those  of 
whom  they  ask  hospitality,  till  they  are  gone  for  ever. 
Entering,  they  seem  simple  wayfarers ;  it  is  only  when 
*  Vanghan. 


CHAPMAN.  '    141 

they  look  back  upon  us  that  we  know  the  angel-couii- 
tenauce,  with  a  pang  of  unavailing  sorrow. 


PHILIP. 

Chapman  seems  never  so  well  content  as  when  he 
makes  one  of  his  heroes  burst  forth  in  an  impetuous 
(and  sometimes  nuuldy)  flood  of  scornful  independence, 
asserting  proudly  the  dignity  of  genius,  as  overtop- 
ping all  otlier  dignities  whatever.  He  was  like  all 
his  great  brethren,  (the  Avorthy  forerunners  of  the 
glorious  band  who  set  the  divine  riglit  of  all  temporal 
power  for  ever  beneath  the  feet  of  that  diviner  right  of 
the  eternal  soul,)  ashamed  to  bend  tlie  knee,  nay,  even 
to  pay  common  civility  to  any  conventionality,  howso- 
ever seemingly  venerable  and  august.  Indeed,  tliere 
is  too  much  scorn  and  pride  in  him  to  consist  with  the 
highest  genius.  For  great  genius  is  humble;  its  con- 
fidence is  not  in  its  own  strength,  but  in  that  of  its 
cause.  Pride  cannot  fly  over  the  great  void  gulf  be- 
tween its  performance  and  its  hope  ;  but,  if  slie  tempt 
the  perilous  voyage,  flutters  her  vain  wings,  and  drops 
exhausted  into  that  unfathomable  grave.  Chapman's 
independent  bearing  often  breaks  down  into  a  mere 
swagger,  and,  indeed,  is  seldom  confined  within  the 
limits  of  established  propriety.  Doubtless  he  was  of 
opinion,  with  Fuller,  that  "  it  is  better  to  lap  one's 
pottage  like  a  dog,  than  to  eat  mannerly  with  a  spoon 
of  the  Devil's  giving ; "  and  if  he  is  sometimes  bent 
on  believing  that  all  spoons,  save  a  clumsy  horn  one 
of  his  own  make,  are  presents  from  that  liberal  gen- 
tleman, and  go  about  laboriously   to  lap  like  a  dog 

UNIVEBSITl  . 


142  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

when  he  had  better  have  eaten  like  a  Christian,  (like 
some  who  foolishly  think  a  certain  rude  ungracious- 
ness of  bearing  best  befitting  a  radical,)  yet  we  should 
pardon  a  great  deal  to  a  mistaken  love  of  principle, 
when  the  principle  is  a  good  one,  remembering  that 
the  flanks  of  our  own  hobbies  are  bloody  with  our  too 
fiery  spurring,  and  that  enthusiasm  is  the  most  amiable 
of  excesses. 

JOHN. 

A  long  sentence,  but  safely  delivered  at  last.  Those 
radicals  you  speak  of  are  the  deep-seeing  philosophers 
M'ho  believe  tiiat  an  innate  democracy  resides  in  cow- 
liide  boots,  and  that  a  thorough  knowledge  of  govern- 
ment and  a  general  intelligence  upon  all  subjects  soak 
into  the  brain  from  the  liberal  virtue  of  a  roofless  hat; 
who  suspect  good  breeding  for  a  monarchist  in  dis- 
guise; believe  that  all  white  men  are  their  brothers  on 
the  day  before  election ;  and  proudly  stand  sponsors, 
while  Mr.  Dorr  (a  man  who,  mistakenly,  it  is  true, 
but  no  less  surely,  would  have  stabbed  true  democracy 
to  the  heart,  by  appealing  to  brute  force)  is  christened 
over  again  with  the  abused  name  of  Algernon  Sydney. 
And  yet  such  men  as  these  play  off  the  puppet-show 
of  our  government;  such  men  as  these  persuade  the 
workingmen  of  our  dear  New  England  to  rivet  the 
chains  upon  three  millions  of  their  fellow- workers, 
and  so  drug  their  senses  with  idle  flatteries,  as  to  make 
them  forget,  that,  while  the  laborer  is  bought  and  sold 
in  one  part  of  a  country,  he  can  never  be  truly  re- 
spected in  the  other.  I  can  hardly  keep  my  tears 
down,  when  I  think  of  it. 


CHAPMAN.  143 

PHILIP. 

AVlio  goes  mad  now?  But  I  do  not  wonder. — I 
said  that  Chapnum  has  little  dramatic  power.  His 
plays  seem  rather  to  be  soliloquies,  s^jokeu  by  himself 
from  behind  the  mask  of  different  characters,  than 
true  dramas.  Yet  he  has  considerable  knowledge  of 
character,  and  shrewd  remarks  and  little  natural 
touches  are  not  infrequent  in  his  i)Iays.  Here  is  an 
instance  of  the  last.  Tamyra,  who  is  secretly  in  love 
with  D'Ambois,  after  a  speech  of  his,  says, — fearful 
lest  her  calling  him  by  name  might  betray  her  secret, 
and  yet  unable  to  let  slip  a  chance  of  saying  something 
in  his  praise, — 

"  IMcthinks  the  man  hath  answered  for  us  well." 

The  king's  brotlier,  who  suspects  the  truth,  turns  to 
her  and  asks, 

"  Tlie  man?    Why,  Madam,  d'ye  not  know  his  name?" 

She  answers  nobly  enough, 

"Man  is  a  name  of  honor  for  a  king; 
Additions  take  awcvjfrom  each  chief  thing." 

JOHN. 

Yes,  she  covers  her  retreat  with  a  true  woman's 
skill ;  not  allowing  that  she  knows  D'Ambois,  and  yet 
satisfying  her  love  by  construing  the  epithet  she  had 
applied  to  iiim  into  so  jealous  a  tribute  of  praise  as 
woukl  be  content  with  no  place  lower  than  the 
hio-hest. 


144  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

PHILIP. 

Something  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  comes  to 
my  mind  in  illustration : 

"  I  watched  how  fearfully, 
And  j'et  how  suddenly,  he  cured  his  lies ; 
The  right  wit  of  a  woman." 

I  shall  now  go  on  reading  extracts  from  the  rest  of 
this  play,  and  from  others  ;  without  following  the  plot, 
or  any  other  order  than  chance  or  fancy  may  dictate. 
Indeed,  Chapman's  plots  are  of  little  importance  to 
him,  except  as  threads  for  his  thoughts  to  crystallize 
around.  Here  are  one  or  two  specimens  of  his  exalted 
notion  of  greatness,  and  of  the  noble  vigor  and  state- 
liness  which  animate  and  expand  his  verse  in  the  ex- 
pression of  it. 

''  His  words  and  looks 
Are  like  the  flashes  and  the  bolts  of  Jove  ; 
His  deeds  inimitable,  like  the  sea, 
Which  shuts  still  as  it  opes,  and  leave  no  tracks 
Nor  prints  of  precedent  for  mean  men''s  acts." 

D'Ambois. 

JOHN. 

Grand,  and  grandly  spoken. 

PHILIP. 

The  following  is  even  finer,  or  at  least  shows  more 
art  in  expression. 

"  His  great  heart  will  not  down  :  't  is  like  the  sea, 
That — partly  by  his  own  internal  heat, 
Partly  the  stars'  daily  and  nightly  motion, 
Their  heat  and  light,  and  partly  by  the  place 


CHAPMAN.  146 

O'  til'  divei-s  frames,  but  chiefly  by  the  moon, 

Bristled  witii  surges — never  will  be  won 

(No,  not  when  the  hearts  of  all  those  powers  are  burst) 

To  make  retreat  into  his  settled  home, 

Till  he  be  crowned  wilh  his  own  quiet  foam," 

jyAmhoig. 

JOHN. 

If  a  poet  is  fond  of  the  sea,  it  always  prepossesses 
me  ill  his  favor.  The  third  verse  of  what  you  have 
read  has  great  delicacy  and  beauty  of  expression  : 

"Partly  the  stars'  daily  and  nightly  motion  :  " 

there  is  a  waviness  in  its  flow,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
a  gliding  melody,  wliich  suggests  both  the  stars  and 
the  ocean.  The  ending  is  exquisite;  the  whole  sen- 
tence seems  to  swell  on  and  on,  like  a  wave  upon  the 
beach,  till  it  breaks  into  the  quiet  foam  of  the  last 
verse,  and  slides  gently  to  its  rippling  close. 

PHILIP. 

Chapman  does  not  often  linger  to  describe  outward 
nature;  he  has  more  important  matters  at  heart.  His 
natural  scenery  is  of  the  soul,  and  that  mostly  of  an 
Alpine  character.  There  is  none  of  that  breezy,  sum- 
mer-like feeling  in  him,  which  pervaded  the  verses  of 
the  lyric  poets  a  short  time  after,  and  has  come  near  to 
perfection  in  many  descriptive  pieces  of  our  own  day, 

"  Annihilating  all  that's  made, 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade," 

and  seeming  to  be  translations  from  the  grasshopjier, 
butterfly,  locust,  bird,  and  bee  languages  into  the  ver- 

10 


146  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

nacular.     Yet  he  has  some  passages  of  great  merit  in 
this  kind,  and  which  show  a  very  genial  eye  and  ear. 

JOHN. 

Whose  is  that  couplet  you  just  quoted? 

PHILIP. 

Andrew  Marvell's,  the  generous  friend  of  Milton, 
the  kind-hearted  satirist,  the  brave  lover  and  defender 
of  freedom,  whose  commendatory  verses,  you  remem- 
ber, are  prefixed  to  '*'  Paradise  Lost."  He  had  a  rare 
vein  of  poetry  in  him,  delicate,  yet  vigorously  healthy. 
I  know  no  poet  who  had  a  greater  love  of  nature,  or 
has  poured  it  forth  more  sweetly.  There  is  a  descrip- 
tion of  grass  by  him,  in  a  poem  addressed  to  Lord 
Fairfax,  which  is  full  of  the  ripest  foncy  and  feeling. 

"  And  now  to  the  abyss  I  pass 
Of  that  unfathomahle  grass, 
Where  men  like  grasshoppers  appear ; 
But  grasshoppers  are  rjiants  there : 
They,  in  their  squeaking  laugh,  contemn 
Us,  as  we  walk  more  low  than  them, 
And  from  the  precipices  tall 
Of  the  green  spires  to  us  do  call. 
To  see  men  through  this  meadow  dive, 
We  wonder  how  they  rise  alive ; 

But,  as  the  mariners  who  sound. 
And  show  upon  their  lead  the  ground. 
They  bring  up  flowers,  so  to  be  seen, 
And  prove  theifve  at  the  bottom  been. 
No  scene  that  turns  with  engines  strange 
Doth  oftener  than  these  meadows  change  ; 
For,  when  the  sun  the  grass  hath  vext," 
The  tawny  mowers  enter  next, 


CHAPMAN.  147 

Who  seem  like  Israelites  to  be, 
Walki7ig  on  foot  through  a  green  sea; 
To  them  the  grassy  deeps  divide 
And  crowd,  a  lane  on  eiliier  side  ; 
With  whistling  scythe,  and  elbow  strong, 
These  massacre  the  grass  along." 

We  cannot  pardon  extravagance  in  the  imagination  ; 
but  Fancy  would  be  tame  without  it,  and  can  never 
assume  her  proper  nature  of  joyousness,  except  she 
break  into  it.  I  know  you  will  thank  me  if  I  read  a 
little  more. 

"  Thus  I,  easy  philosopher, 
Among  the  birds  and  trees  confer; 
And  little  now  to  make  me  wants 
Or  of  the  fowls  or  of  the  plants ; 
Give  me  bnt  wings  as  they,  and  I 
Straight  floating  on  the  air  shall  fly ; 
Or  turn  me  but,  and  you  shall  see 
I  was  but  an  inverted  tree. 
Already  I  begin  to  call 
In  their  most  learned  original ; 
And  where  I  language  want,  my  signs 
The  bird  upon  the  bougli  divines, 
And  more  attentive  there  doth  sit 
Than  if  slie  were  with  lime-twigs  knit. 
No  leaf  doth  tremble  in  the  wind, 
Which  I,  returning,  cannot  find : 
Oat  of  these  scattered  Sybil' s-leavcs, 
Strange  prophecies  my  fancy  weaves  ; 


What  Rome,  Greece,  rulestine,  e'er  said, 
I  in  this  light  mosaic  read. 


The  oak -leaves  me  embroider  all. 
Between  which  caterpillars  crawl, 
And  ivy,  with  familiar  trails, 
Me  licks  and  clasps,  and  curls  and  hales. 


148  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

Under  this  Attic  cope,  I  move 

Like  some  great  prelate  of  the  grove ; 

Then,  languishing  with  ease,  I  toss 

On  pallets  swollen  of  velvet  moss. 

While  the  wind,  cooling  through  the  boughs, 

Flatters  with  air  my  panting  brows. 


How  safe,  methinks,  and  strong  behind 
These  trees,  I  have  encamped  my  mind  ; 
"Where  beauty,  aiming  at  the  heart. 
Bends  in  some  tree  its  useless  dart ; 
And  where  the  world  no  certain  shot 
Can  make,  or  me  it  toucheth  not ! " 

Old  Walton  avouU  have  clapped  his  hands  at  this 
next: 

"  No  serpent  new,  nor  crocodile, 
Remains  behind  our  little  Nile, 
Unless  itself  you  will  mistake, 
Among  these  meads  the  only  snake. 
See  in  what  wanton,  harmless  folds 
It  everywhere  the  meadow  holds  ; 
And  its  yet  muddy  back  doth  lick, 
Till  as  a  crystal  mirror  slick, 
Where  all  things  gaze  themselves  and  doubt 
If  they  be  in  it  or  ivilhout  ; 
And  for  his  shade,  which  therein  shines, 
Narcissus- like,  the  sun,  too,  pines. 
O,  what  a  pleasure  't  is  to  hedge 
My  temples  liere  with  heavy  sedge, 
Abandoning  my  lazy  side, 
Stretched  as  a.  bank  unto  the  tide  ; 
Or  to  suspend  my  sliding  foot 
On  the  osier' .s  uruletermined  root, 
And  In  its  branches  tough  to  hang. 
While  at  my  lines  the  fishes  twang !  " 

Thomsons  Marvell,  Vol.  III.,  p.  217. 

Now  take  one  little  turn  with  me  in  his  "  Garden/' 
and  we  will  come  back  to  Chapman. 


CHAPMAN.  149 

"  Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear? 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men. 
Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow  ; 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

"  What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead ! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head ; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine ; 
The  nectarine  and  curious  peach 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach ; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Insnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 

**'  Meanwhile,  the  mind,  from  pleasure  less, 
Withdraws  into  its  happiness  ; 
The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 
Doth  straight  its  own  resemblance  find ; 
Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 
Far  other  worlds  and  other  seas, 
Aimihilating  all  that's  made 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade, 

"Here,  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside, 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  doth  glide  ; 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings. 
Then  whets  and  d.aps  its  silver  wings, 
And,  ti'l  prepared  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

"  How  weU  the  skilful  gardener  drew, 
Of  flowers  and  herbs,  this  dial  new! 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Doth  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run; 


150  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

And,  as  it  ivorks,  the  indtistrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 
How  could  such  sweet  and  ivholcsome  hours 
He  reckoned  but  ivith  herbs  and  floioers?" 

Thomson's  Marvell,  Vol.  III.,  p.  41 2. 


JOHN. 

If  Milton  had  written  these,  we  should  almost  have 
set  them  above  the  "  Allegro "  and  "  Penseroso." 
Cowley's  "Grasshopper"  and  Emerson's  "Humblebee" 
must  yield  to  their  luxuriant  fancy,  their  delicate 
philosophy,  and  their  fresh  aptness  of  expression. 
They  make  a  summer  all  round  us  in  this  bare  Decem- 
ber-weather ;  the  roses  bloom  and  the  blossoms  open 
their  startled  eyes  upon  the  bleak  twigs,  as  in  Corne- 
lius Agrippa's  opus  magnum  of  necromancy.  And 
then  how  coolly  and  silently  and  fragrantly  sweet 
images  and  calming  thoughts  drop  wavering  down, 
one  after  another,  upon  the  heart,  like  a  snow  of  blos- 
soms from  an  overladen  bough,  making  us  feel  better, 
and,  if  gentleness  be  wise,  wiser  too  !  I  have  no  doubt 
that  these  verses  were  written  in  winter.  The  imag- 
ination is  more  select  than  the  eye,  and  we  describe 
things  best  when  they  are  absent.  The  eye  is  puzzled 
and  confounded  with  the  presence  of  a  beautiful  object, 
and  is  willing  to  relapse  from  an  analyzing  attention 
into  a  vague  delight.  After  the  object  is  withdrawn, 
the  imagination  does  not  recreate,  but  chooses  and 
arranges  from  the  distinctest  images  of  the  memory ; 
and  this  result,  presented  again  to  the  eye,  is  more 
clear  and  satisfying  than  the  original  vision. 


CHAPMAN.  151 

PHILIP. 

I  am  afraid  that  Chapman's  landscapes  will  look 
tame  and  leaden  to  yon,  now  that  your  eye  has  been 
put  out  of  tunc  by  such  brilliant  colors.  The  follow- 
ing verses  make  one  feel  as  if  he  had  suddenly  thrown 
up  the  window  of  a  close  and  dazzling  room,  and 
gazed  out  into  the  dim,  foreboding  eyes  of  Night. 
Tamyra  is  expecting  D'Ambois,  whom  she  loves 
unlawfully,  at  midnight. 

"Now  all  ye  peaceful  regents  of  the  night, 
Silently  gliding  exhalations, 

Languishing  winds,  and  murmuring  falls  of  tvaters. 
Sadness  of  heart,  and  ominous  secureness, 
Enchantments,  dead  sleeps,  all  the  friends  of  rest. 
That  ever  wrought  upon  the  life  of  man, 
Extend  your  utmost  strengths,  and  this  charmed  hour 
Fix  like  the  centre  ;  make  the  violent  wheels 
Of  Time  and  Fortune  stand  ;  and  great  existence 
(The  Maker's  treasury)  now  not  seem  to  be 
To  all  but  my  approaching  friends  and  me." 

You  cannot  fail  to  be  struck  with  the  sadness  and 
silence  infused  into  the  first  five  verses  by  that  peculiar 
property  of  the  letter  s  which  w^e  were  speaking  of. 

JOIIX. 

It  seems  to  me  the  perfection  of  descriptive  poetry; 
painting,  not  the  objects  themselves,  but  their  effect 
upon  the  mind  reflected  back  upon  them  and  giving 
them  a  color  of  its  own.  An  unhappy  man,  if  he  go 
into  a  wood,  shall  hear  nothing  but  sad  sounds  there; 
the  tinkle  of  the  brook,  the  low,  ocean-murmur  of  the 
cloudy  pines,  the  soft  clatter  of  the  leaves,  shall  all 


152  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

sound  funereal  to  him ;  he  shall  see  only  the  dead 
limbs  upon  the  trees,  and  only  the  inhospitable  corners 
of  the  rocks,  too  churlish  even  for  the  hardy  lichen  to 
pitch  his  tents  upon.  For  outward  nature  is  but  one 
of  the  soul's  retainers,  and  dons  a  festal  or  a  mourn- 
ing garment  according  as  its  master  does.  There  is 
nothing  sad  or  joyful  in  nature,  of  itself.  Autumn  is 
often  called  a  melancholy  season ;  I  cannot  find  it  so, 
though  I  have  often  known  the  summer  landscape  to 
seem  barer  and  bleaker  than  the  long  gray  beach  at 
Nantasket. — No ;  there  hangs  the  wondrous  lyre  within 
our  reach,  its  dumb  chords  bearing  the  unborn  music 
in  their  womb,  which  our  touch  delivers, — a  love- 
ditty  or  a  dirge.  I  have  no  patience  with  nine-tenths 
of  the  descriptive  verse  I  read.  It  is  mere  cata- 
loguing, the  conciseness  and  propriety  of  which  an 
auctioneer  might  admire,  and  to  him  I  gladly  relin- 
quish it.  If  I  wish  for  an  account  of  our  flowers,  the 
text-books  of  Professor  Bigelow  or  Gray  will  amply 
suffice  me;  if  of  our  trees,  I  will  be  content  with 
Michaux,  one  of  whose  volumes  I  have  often  found 
interesting  enough  to  read  it  through  at  a  single  sit- 
ting. 

PHILIP. 

You  must  make  an  exception  in  favor  of  what  the 
mere  fancy,  in  one  of  her  indifferent  moods,  colors  to 
her  will.  Tiie  imagination  has  no  neutralities;  it 
takes  either  one  side  or  the  other,  as  if  by  a  will  of  its 
own,  and  brings  all  its  resources  to  the  support  of  it. 
— Here  is  something  of  Fancy's  when  she  was  at  her 
happiest : 


CHAPMAN.  153 

"  Like  a  calm 
Before  a  tempest,  when  the  silent  air 
Lays  her  soft  ear  close  to  the  earth,  to  hearken 
For  what  she  fears  steals  on  to  ravish  her." 

D'Aitibois. 

This,  too,  has  a  sweet  airiness  about  it : 

"As,  when  (he  moon  hath  comforted  the  night 
And  set  the  world  in  silver  of  her  light. 
The  planets,  asterisms,  and  whole  state  of  heaven 
In  beams  of  gold  descending;  all  the  winds 
Bound  up  in  caves,  charged  not  to  drive  abroad 
Their  cloudy  heads ;  an  universal  peace. 
Proclaimed  in  silence  of  the  quiet  earth." 
*  Byron  s  Conspiracy.  * 

The  following  is  fine  in  another  way : 

"  Your  Majesty  hath  missed  a  noble  sight : 
The  Duke  Byron,  on  his  brave  beast  Pastrana; 
Who  sits  him  like  a  full-sailed  argosy 
Danced  with  a  lofty  billow,  and  as  snug 
Plies  to  his  bearer,  both  their  motions  mixed." 

Ibid. 

Chapman  excels  in  metaphors  and  similes,  and  as 
most  of  them  illustrate  his  descriptive  faculty,  I  will 
read  a  few  of  them. 

"  We  must  use  these  lures  when  we  hawk  for  friends. 
And  wind  about  them  like  a  subtle  river, 

*  For  this  and  all  my  other  extracts  from  Chapman's  "  Byron's 
Conspiracy,"  and  "The  Tragedy  of  the  Duke  de  Byron,"  I  am 
indebted  to  the  copious  and  judicious  extracts  from  those  plays  in 
the  "  Retrospective  Review,"  Vol.  IV. ;  they  never  having  been 
separately  reprinted,  and  therefore  being  inaccessible,  in  this 
countrv,  in  their  entire  form. 


154  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

That,  seeming  only  to  run  on  his  course, 
Doth  search  still  as  he  runs,  and  still  finds  out 
The  easiest  parts  of  entry  on  the  shore. 
Gliding  so  slyly  by,  as  scarce  he  touched, 
Yet  still  eats  something  in  it." 


This  is  still  better  : 

"  And  this  wind,  that  doth  sing  so  in  your  ears, 
I  know  is  no  disease  bred  in  yourself. 
But  whispered  in  by  others,  who,  in  swelling 
Your  veins  with  empty  hopes  of  much,  yet  able 
To  perform  nothing,  are  like  shallow  streams. 
That  make  themselves  so  many  heavens  to  sight, 
Since  you  may  see  in  them  the  moon  and  stars, 
The  blue  space  of  the  air,  as  far  from  us, 
To  our  weak  senses,  in  those  shallow  streams, 
As  if  they  were  as  deep  as  heaven  is  high  ; 
Yet,  with  your  middle  finger  only  sound  them. 
And  you  shall  pierce  them  to  the  very  earth.'' 

The  next  is  worthy  of  Shakespeare  : 


Ibid. 


Ibid. 


"  As  you  may  see  a  mighty  promontory 
More  digged  and  under-eaten  than  may  warrant 
A  safe  supportance  to  his  hanging  brows. 
All  passengers  avoid  him,  shun  all  ground 
That  lies  within  his  shadow,  and  bear  still 
A  flying  eye  upon  him  ; — so  great  men, 
Corrupted  in  their  grounds,  and  building  out 
Too  swelling  fronts  for  their  foundations, 
"When  most  they  sliould  be  propped,  are  most  forsaken. 
And  men  Avill  rather  thrust  into  the  storms 
Of  better-grounded  states  than  take  a  shelter 
Beneath  their  ruinous  and  fearful  weight ; 
Yet  they  so  oversee  their  faulty  bases, 
ITiai  they  remain  securer  in  conceit, 
And  that  security  doth  iporse presage 
Their  near  destruction  than  their  eaten  grounds." 

Ibid. 


CHAPMAN.  155 

The  following  verses,  expressing  Byron's  conduct 
when  first  imprisoned,  are  very  graphic  in  idea,  and 
have  a  vast  deal  of  life  in  the  expression.  Notice 
what  a  hurry  and  flutter  there  is  in  the  metre ;  it  jerks 
impatiently  to  and  fro,  as  the  bird  would. 

"  As  a  bird, 
Entered  a  closet,  which  unawares  is  made 
His  desperate  prison,  being  pursued,  amazed 
And  wrathful,  beats  his  breast  from  wall  to  wall, 
Assaults  the  light,  strikes  down  himself,  not  out, 
And,  being  taken,  struggles,  gasps,  and  bites, 
Takes  all  his  taker's  strokings  to  be  strokes, 
Abhorreth  food,  and,  with  a  savage  will, 
Frets,  pines,  and  dies,  for  former  liberty." 

Byron's  Tragedy. 

Chaucer  has  two  passages  of  which  this  reminds  me, 
and,  as  they  are  very  graphic,  and  I  did  not  read  them 
to  you  yesterday,  I  will  quote  them  now. 

"  Men,  by  their  nature,  love  newfangleness 
As  do  the  birds  that  men  in  cages  feed ; 
For,  though  thou  night  and  day  of  them  take  heed. 
And  strew  their  cages  soft  and  fair  as  silk. 
And  give  them  sugar,  honey,  bread,  and  milk. 
Yet,  just  so  soon  as  e'er  the  door  is  up. 
They  with  their  glad  feet  will  spurn  down  their  cup. 
And  to  the  woods  straightway  on  worms  to  feed." 

The  Squire's  Tale. 

"  Take  any  bird,  and  put  it  in  a  cage, 
And,  though  thou  hast  the  forethought  of  a  Mage 
To  foster  it  tenderly  with  meat  and  drink. 
And  every  dainty  that  thou  canst  bethink, 
And  keep  it,  too,  as  cleanly  as  thou  may  ; 
Although  the  cage  with  gold  be  never  so  gay, 
Yet  had  the  bird  bv  twenty  thousand  fold 


156  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

Be  rather  in  a  forest  wild  and  cold, 

To  feed  on  worms  and  such  like  wretchedness." 

The  Manciple's  Tale. 

JOHN. 

I  love  these  homely  comparisons  drawn  from  the 
humble  tragedies  of  every-day  life.  A  poet  who 
shoots  all  his  arrows  at  the  stars  may  chance  to  hit  us 
now  and  then,  but  is  only  by  good  luck.  The  heart, 
which  is  not  so  nice  in  its  phrase  as  the  intellect,  is 
more  likely  to  be  reached  by  a  humbler  aim.  I  never 
shall  forget  the  blind  despair  of  a  poor  little  humming- 
bird which  flew  through  the  open  window  of  the 
nursery  where  I  was  playing  when  a  child.  I  knew 
him  at  once  for  the  same  gay-vested  messenger  from 
Fairy  Land,  whom  I  had  often  watched  disputing  with 
the  elvish  bees  the  treasures  of  the  honeysuckle  by  the 
door-step.  His  imprisoned  agony  scarce  equalled  my 
own  ;  and  the  slender  streaks  of  blood,  which  his  inno- 
cent, frenzied  suicide  left  upon  the  ceiling,  were  more 
terrible  to  me  than  the  red  witness  which  Rizzio  left 
on  the  stair  at  Holyrood  to  cry  out  against  his  mur- 
derers. 

PHILIP. 

In  the  poem  of  "  Hero  and  Leauder,"  begun  by 

Marlow,  and  finished  by  Chapman,  our  poet's  lighter 

qualities   are  very  attractively  displayed.     There  (as 

how  could   it  be  otherwise   in    such    a   subject?)    he 

shows  more  invention  and  gracefulness  of  fancy  than 

anywhere  else ;  there,  as  he  himself  says  of  Marlow,  he 

stands 

"  Up  to  the  chin  in  the  Pierian  flood.'' 


CHAPMAN.  157 

You  remember  Burus's  admirable  simile, — 

"  Like  snow-flakes  falling  on  a  river, 
A  moment  white,  then  gone  fur  ever"  ? 

Chapman  had  used  it  before  him,  and  witli  the  same 
application : 

"  Joy  graven  in  sense,  like  snow  in  water,  wastes ; 
"Without  preserve  of  virtue,  nothing  lasts." 

AYarton  and  the  anonymous  editor  of  1821  would 
have  Chapman's  share  in  the  poem  commence  later. 
But  I  cannot  conceive  how,  with  the  direct  and  posi- 
tive testimony  of  the  style  before  them,  they  could 
doubt  that  he  began  with  the  third  "  sestyad  "  of  the 
poem.     If  this  verse, 

"But  time  and  all-states-ordering  ceremony," 

cannot  claim  him  for  father,  I  will  never  more  put 
faith  in  physiognomy.  There  is  too  strong  a  family 
likeness  between  this  and  many  verses  in  his  transla- 
tions to  let  us  doubt  their  being  of  the  same  parentage. 
For  instance : 

"  The  golden-rod -sustaining-Argus  guide  :  " 

"  To  horse-breed-varying  Phrygia  likewise  send  :  " 

"  The  all-of-gold-made-Iaughterloving  dame :  " 

or,  to  proceed  at  once  to  extremities  with  the  doubter, — 

"  On  Ida's-top-on-topto-heaven's-pole  heaped  :  " 
all  of  which  occur  in  his  version  of  Homer's  "  Hymn 


158  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

to   Venus."     Or   take    these   from   the    "Hymn   to 
Hermes : " 

"  The-that-morn-born-Cyllenius  did  attain  :  " 

"  His-born-to-bark-mouth  at  liim,  till,  in  the  end  :  " 

"  The  more-than-ever-certain  deities." 

Marlow  had  none  of  this  taste  for  handcuffing  words 
together,  till  they  halt  along,  melancholy  and  irregular, 
like  a  coffle  of  slaves  under  the  eaves  of  the  Capitol. 
I  must  not  leave  you  to  think  that  the  compound 
epithets  in  Chapman's  translations  are  all  like  these. 
Most  of  them  are  extremely  fresh  and  spirited,  and 
the  translations  are,  besides  their  other  great  merits, 
full  of  interest  to  the  student  of  language.  Generally 
his  epithets  are  truly  "  winged  words,"  though  his  zeal 
sometimes  leads  him  to  tie  on  rather  clumsily  three  or 
four  additional  pairs  of  pinions,  which  hang  awk- 
wardly about  them  and  prevent  their  moving  their 
natural  wings. 

Here  is  a  beautiful  passage,  opening  Avith  a  simile : 

"  And  all  the  while  the  red  sea  of  her  blood 
Ebbed  with  Leander  ;  but  now  turned  the  flood, 
And  all  Iter  fleet  of  spirits  came  swelUnci  in 
With  crowd  of  sail,  and  did  hot  fight  begin 
With  those  severe  conceits  she  too  much  marked; 
And  here  Leander's  beauties  were  embarked. 
He  came  in  swimming,  painted  all  with  joys 
Such  as  might  sweeten  hell ;  his  thought  destroys 
All  her  destroying  thoughts  ;  she  thowjht  she  felt 
His  heart  in  hers  ;..... 
Her  fresh-heat  blood  cast  figures  in  her  eyes, 
And  she  supposed  she  saw  in  Neptune's  skies 
How  her  star  wandered,  washed  in  smarting  brine, 
For  her  love's  sake,  that  with  immortal  wine 


CHAPMAN.  159 

Should  be  enibatlied,  and  tiwhn  in  more  heart's-ease 
Than  there  be  watei-s  in  the  Sestian  neas." 

Hero  and  Leander. — Third  Sestyad. 

JOHN. 

I  cannot  say  when  I  have  met  with  an  image  that 
so  charmed  me  as  this, — 

"  She  saw  in  Neptune's  skies 
How  her  star  wandered." 

The  suggestion  of  tlie  inverted  heaven  in  the  sea,  and 
the  making  Leander,  rosy  as  lie  was  with  health  and 
youth  and  love,  into  a  star,  bring  a  truly  Grecian 
delight  with  them.  Ah,  the  poet's  heart  is  an  uu- 
lighted  torch,  which  gives  no  help  to  his  footsteps,  till 
love  has  touched  it  with  flame. 

PHILIP. 

You  must  read  the  whole  poem.  If  there  be  a  few 
blurs  in  it,  it  is  yet  one  of  the  clearest  and  most  per- 
fect crystals  in  the  language,  an  entire  opal,  beautiful 
without  the  lapidary's  help ;  but  it  will  shine  with 
true  pureness  only  in 

"  the  nunnery 
Of  a  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind," 

like  some  of  Donne's  more  private  and  esoteric  poems. 
The  same  candle  may  light  the  soul  to  its  chapel  of 
devotion  or  its  bed  of  harlotry. — Most  of  the  dramatists 
of  Chapman's  time  excel  in  drawing  the  characters  of 
women.  This,  no  doubt,  was  partly  owing  to  the 
greater  freedom  of  intercourse  between  the  sexes, 
which   that    less   conventional   day   allowed  and  en- 


160  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

couraged.  Now  we  have  become  deep-versed  in  forms 
and  shallow  in  realities.  We  have  grown  so  deli- 
cately decent  that  we  must  need  apologize  for  nature, 
and  make  God  himself  more  comme  il  faut. 

JOHN. 

And  yet  our  decency  is  indecent.  Fashion,  being 
the  art  of  those  who  must  purchase  notice  at  some 
cheaper  rate  than  that  of  being  beautiful,  loves  to  do 
rash  and  extravagant  things.  She  must  be  for  ever 
new,  or  she  becomes  insipid.  If  to-day  she  have  been 
courteous,  she  will  be  rude  to-morrow;  if  to-day 
thinks  her  over-refined,  to-morrow  will  wonder  at  see- 
ing her  relapsed  into  a  semi-savage  state.  A  few  years 
ago,  certain  elaborate  and  amorphous  structures  might 
be  seen  moving  about  the  streets,  in  the  whole  of 
which  the  only  symptom  of  animated  nature  to  be  dis- 
cerned was  in  the  movable  feet  and  ankles  which 
conveyed  them  along.  Now,  even  that  sign  of  vitality 
has  vanished  ;  the  amorphous  structures  move  about 
as  usual,  but  their  motive  principle  is  as  mysterious  as 
that  of  Maelzel's  chess-player.  My  own  theory  is, 
that  a  dwarf  is  concealed  somewhere  within.  They 
may  be  engines  employed  for  economical  purposes  by 
the  civic  authorities,  as  their  use  has  been  conjectured 
by  an  ingenious  foreigner,  who  observed  our  manners 
attentively,  to  be  the  collection  of  those  particles  of 
mud  and  dust  which  are  fine  enough  to  elude  the 
birchen  brooms  of  the  police,  whose  duty  it  is  to 
cleanse  the  streets.  There  is  more  plausibility  in  this 
theory,  as  they  are  actually  provided  with  a  cloth  train 
or   skirt   of  various    colors,    which    seems    very    well 


CHAPMAN.  161 

adapted  to  this  end.  A  city  poet,  remarkable  fur  the 
boldness  of  his  metaphorical  imagery,  has  given  them 
the  name  of  *'  women,"  tliough  from  so  nice  an  analogy 
as  hitherto  to  have  eluded  my  keenest  researches. 

riiiLir. 
It  must  have  been  the  same  who  gave  the  title  of 
"  full-dress "  to  the  half-dress  worn  now  by  females 
of  the  better  sort  at  parties,  the  sole  object  of  which 
seems  to  be  to  prove  the  wearer's  claim  to  rank  with 
the  genus  mammifcrw.  One-half  of  the  human  race,  I 
see,  is  resolved  to  get  rid  of  the  most  apparent  token 
of  our  great  ancestors'  fall,  and  is  rapidly  receding  to 
a  paradisaical  simplicity  of  vesture.  Already  have 
the  shoulders  emerged  from  their  superstitious  enthral- 
ment,  and  their  bold  example  will  no  doubt  be  rapidly 
followed  by  equally  spirited  demonstrations  from  the 
rest  of  the  body  impolitic.  For  the  sake  of  con- 
sistency, we  must  suppose  that  train-oil  will  soon 
elbow  the  ices  from  the  supper-table. — But  a  truce  to 
this  cynical  vein.  It  is,  nevertheless,  mournful,  that 
women,  who  stint  not  in  large  assemblies  to  show  that, 
to  the  eyes  of  strangers  which  the  holy  privacy  of 
home  is  not  deemed  pure  enough  to  look  upon,  would 
yet  grow  crimson  with  modest  horror,  through  the 
whole  vast  extent  of  their  uncovered  superficies,  if  one 
but  dared  to  call  by  its  dear  English  name  that  which, 
in  the  loved  one,  is  the  type  of  all  maidenhood  and 
sweetest  retirement, — in  the  wife,  of  all  chastity  and 
whitest  thoughts, — and  in  the  mother,  of  all  that  is 
most  tender  and  bounteous.  On  such  a  bosom,  me- 
thinks,  a  rose  would  wither,  and  the  snowy  petals  of  a 
11 


162  THIRD   CONVERSATION. 

lily  drop  away  in  silent,  sorrowful  reproof.  AVe  have 
grown  too  polite  for  what  is  holiest,  noblest,  and  kind- 
est in  the  social  relations  of  life ;  but,  alas !  to  blush, 
to  conceal,  to  lie,  to  envy,  to  sneer,  to  be  illiberal, — 
these  trench  not  on  the  bounds  of  any  modesty,  human 
or  divine.  Yes,  our  English,  which  for  centuries  has 
been  the  mother-tongue  of  honest  frankness,  and  the 
chosen  phrase  of  freedom,  is  become  so  slavish  and 
emasculate,  that  its  glorious  Bacons,  Taylors,  and  Mil- 
tons  would  find  their  outspoken  and  erect  natures  inapt 
to  walk  in  its  fetters,  golden,  indeed,  and  of  cunningest 
Paris  workmanship,  but  whose  galling  the  soul  is  not 
nice  enough  to  discern  from  that  of  baser  metal.  The 
wild  singing  brook  has  been  civilized;  the  graceful 
rudeness  of  its  banks  has  been  pared  away  to  give  place 
to  smooth-clipped  turf;  the  bright  pebbles,  which 
would  not  let  it  pass  without  tlie  tribute  of  some  new 
music,  have  been  raked  out ;  and  it  has  become  a 
straight,  sluggish  canal. 

JOHN. 

Yes ;  the  language  has  certainly  become  more  pol- 
ished, and  necessarily  so.  What  should  you  say  to  a 
naked  Pict,  in  that  famous  contradictory  costume  of 
Sir  Richard  Blackmore's,  in  your  drawing-room  ?  (By 
the  way,  I  wonder  that  no  critic  has  discovered  that 
the  dress  alluded  to  was  made  of  huWs  hide.)  Any 
writer  muscular  enough  can  bend  the  good  old  Ulys- 
ses'-bow  of  our  language,  and  make  it  hurl  its  shafts 
with  as  sharp  a  twang  as  ever.  It  is  not  our  speech 
that  has  grown  cowardly  and  timeserving,  but  we  our- 
selves ;  and  we  have  bribed  the  language  to  turn  traitor 


CHAPMAN.  163 

with  us.  Because  we  do  not  task  it  in  that  cause  which 
is  the  holiest,  because  tlic  Iminblest  and  weakest  and 
most  despised,  of  all  that  call  Freedom  mother,  does  it 
therefore  refuse  its  ancient  privilege  of  thunder  to  the 
lips  of  Phillips,  or  Douglass,  or  Burleigh,  or  Abby 
Kelly  ?  Let  the  mean  apartments  into  which  the 
church  and  the  state  have  driven  the  apostles  of  that 
humanity  which  Christ  preached  and  practised  answer! 
Let  the  unchartered  majesty  of  the  blue  heaven  which 
has  never  forbid  them  the  shelter  of  its  soaring  canopy, 
when  the  poor  buildings  of  human  hands  have  been 
scoffingly  denied  them,  answer ! 


PHILIP. 

Nevertheless,  you  must  allow  that  the  language  has 
lost  much  of  its  pristine  lustiness,  by  the  taint  of  Gal- 
licism which  is  more  and  more  creeping  over  it.  It 
has  grown  so  polite  and  mincing,  and  in  our  brave  old 
Saxon-sprung  New  England,  too  !  The  homely  names 
of  man  and  woman,  which  sought  sanctuary  in  the  cot- 
tage and  the  farm-house,  from  the  luxury,  effeminacy, 
and  vice  of  city  and  court,  must  now  be  driven  thence 
also,  and  our  very  dairy-maids  and  ploughmen  must  be 
ladles  and  gentlemen.  We  may  speak  of  these  things 
as  unconcerned  spectators  ab  extra,  being  necessarily 
precluded  from  the  privilege  of  one  of  these  latter 
titles  by  virtue  of  our  sex,  and  from  the  other  by  our 
Abolitionism.  Perhaps  we  may  ere  long  be  taught  to 
call  our  homes  jjapa-land  and  mamma-count ri/,  leaving 
the  uncouth  names  of  father  and  mother  to  such  as  are 
ignorant  or  gross  enough  to  be  natural.  Let  us  forget 
that  we  ever  so  far  yielded  to  the  demoralizing  tend- 


164  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

ency  of  our  baser  natures  as  to  have  been  suckled  at 
our  mother's  breasts,  (if  we  can  do  so,  while  the  pres- 
ent fashion  of  feminine  full-dress  retains  its  sway,)  and 
do  penance  in  white  kid  gloves  and  French  boots  for 
the  damnable  heresy  of  our  childhood,  when  we  enter- 
tained a  theory,  unfounded  as  the  Ptolemaic  system  of 
astronomy,  that  straightforward  truth  was  respectable, 
and  that  women  had  other  developments  besides  head 
and  arms,  our  uninspired  eyesight  to  the  contrary  not- 
withstanding ! 

JOHN. 

You  are  getting  very  merry,  and  very  parenthetical, 
at  the  same  time.  Let  the  original  topic  of  our  con- 
versation now  edge  itself  in,  byway  of  parenthesis,  and 
let  me  have  a  chance  of  judging  for  myself  of  the  dig- 
nity of  Chapman's  ideas  of  women. 

PHILIP. 

I  heartily  thank  you  for  distentangling  me  so 
adroitly. — Hear  Chapman  : — 

"  Noble  she  is  by  birth  made  good  by  virtue ; 
Exceeding  fair ;  and  her  behavior  to  it 
Is  like  a  singular  musician 
To  a  sweet  instrument,  or  else  as  doctrine 
Is  to  the  soul,  that  puts  it  into  act, 
And  prints  it  full  of  admirable  forms, 
Without  which  't  were  an  empty,  idle  flame ; 
Her  eminent  judgment  to  dispose  these  parts 
Sits  on  her  brow  and  holds  a  silver  sceptre, 
Wherewith  she  keeps  time  to  the  several  musics 
Placed  in  the  sacred  concert  of  her  beauties  : 
Love's  complete  armory  is  managed  in  her 


CHAPMAN.  165 

To  stir  affection,  and  the  discipline 
To  check  and  to  affright  it  from  attempting 
Any  attaint  might  disproportion  her, 
And  make  lier  graces  less  than  circular  : 
Yet  her  even  carriage  is  as  far  from  coyness 
As  from  imiufidesty;  in  play,  in  dancing. 
In  sutlbring  courtship,  in  requiting  kindness, 
In  use  of  places,  hours,  and  companies. 
Free  as  the  sun,  and  nothing  more  corrupted  ; 
As  circumspect  as  Cynthia  in  her  vows, 
As  constant  as  the  centre  to  observe  them ; 
Ruthful  and  bounteous,  never  fierce  nor  dull. 
In  all  her  courses  ever  at  the  full." 

Monsieur  U  Olive. 

I  know  what  your  thoughts  are  now.  You  are 
thinking  that  there  is  but  one  to  whom  the  silver- 
flowing  lines  may  be  applied.  You  think  that  it  is 
like  the  "  mantle  made  amiss "  of  tlie  old  romance, 
which  made  itself  too  short  for  one  and  too  long  for 
another,  and  yet  fitted  itself  to  the  shape  of  the  true 
maiden  like  a  bridal  garment. 

JOHN. 

Nay,  you  have  shot  wide.  There  can  be  but  one  in 
whom  each  of  us  can  trace  the  likeness  of  this  rare 
portrait ;  yet  it  would  be  doubting  the  good  providence 
of  God,  to  draw  back  our  heads  into  the  dull  tortoise- 
shell  of  our  selfish  unbelief,  and  refuse  to  think  that 
there  are  many  such.  It  is  only  in  love  that  the  soul 
finds  weather  as  summer-like  as  that  of  the  clime 
whence  it  has  been  transplanted,  and  can  put  forth  its 
blossoms  and  ripen  its  fruit  without  fear  of  nipping 
frosts.  Never  was  falser  doctrine  preached  than  that 
love's  chief  delight  and  satisfaction  lie  in  the  pursuit 


166  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

of  its  object,  whicli  won,  the  cliarm  is  already  flutter- 
ing its  wings  to  seek  some  fairer  height.  This  is  true 
only  when  love  has  been  but  one  of  tlie  thousand 
vizards  of  selfishness,  when  we  have  loved  ourselves 
in  the  beautiful  spirit  we  have  knelt  to ;  that  is,  when 
we  have  merely  loved  the  delight  Ave  felt  in  loving. 
Then  it  is  that  the  cup  we  so  thirsted  after  tastes 
bitter  or  insipid,  and  we  fling  it  down  undruuk.  Did 
we  empty  it,  we  should  find  that  it  was  the  poor 
muddy  dregs  of  self  at  the  bottom,  which  made  our 
gorge  rise.  If  it  be  God  whom  we  love  in  loving  our 
elected  one,  then  shall  the  bright  halo  of  her  spirit 
expand  itself  over  all  existence,  till  every  human  face 
we  look  upon  shall  share  in  its  transfiguration,  and  the 
old  forgotten  trace  of  brotherhood  be  lit  up  by  it ;  and 
our  love,  instead  of  pining  discomforted,  shall  be  lured 
upward  and  upward  by  low  angelic  voices,  which 
recede  before  it  for  ever,  as  it  mounts  from  brightening 
summit  to  summit  on  the  delectable  mountains  of 
aspiration  and  resolve  and  deed. 


PHILIP. 

You  are  in  the  mood  now  to  listen  to  some  favorite 
passages  of  mine  in  one  of  Taylor's  Sermons,  in  which 
is  a  sweet  picture  of  the  benign  influence  of  piety  in  a 
woman.  The  extract  from  Chapman  Avhich  I  last 
read  always  brings  these  into  my  mind.  Let  us  open 
the  grim-looking  old  folio  once  more;  there  is  as  much 
true  poetry  between  its  shabby  covers  as  may  be  found 
anywhere  out  of  Shakespeare. 


CIIAPMAX.  167 

"I  have  seen  a  female  religion  tlmt  wholly  dwelt  upon  the  face 
and  tongue;  that,  like  a  wanton  and  inidrossed  tree,  spends  all  its 
juice  in  suckers  and  irregular  l^ranclics,  in  leaves  and  gum,  and, 
after  all  suciv  goodly  outsidos,  you  shall  never  eat  an  apple,  nor  Ije 
delighted  with  the  beauties  nor  the  perfumes  of  a  hopeful  blos- 
som. But  the  religion  of  this  excellent  lady  was  of  another  con- 
stitution. It  took  root  downward  in  humility,  and  brought  forth 
fruit  upward  in  the  substantial  graces  of  a  Christian  ;  in  charity 
and  justice;  in  chastity  and  modesty;  in  fair  friendships  and 
sweetness  of  society.  She  had  not  very  much  of  the  forms  and 
outsidcs  of  godliness,  but  she  was  hugely  careful  for  the  power  of 
it,  for  the  moral,  essential,  and  useful  parts,  such  which  would 
make  her  be,  not  seem  to  be,  religious.  .  .  .  Tn  all  her  religion, 
and  in  all  her  actions  of  relation  toward  God,  she  had  a  strange 
evenness  and  untroubled  passage,  sliding  toward  her  ocean  of  God 
and  of  infinity  with  a  certain  and  silent  motion.  So  have  I  seen 
a  river,  deep  and  smooth,  passing  with  a  still  foot  and  a  sober 
face,  and  paying  to  the  fiscns,  the  great  exchequer,  of  the  sea,  the 
prince  of  all  the  watery  bodies,  a  tribute  large  and  full ;  and  hard 
by  it  a  little  l)rook,  skipping  and  making  a  noise  upon  its  unequal 
and  neighbor  bottom,  and,  after  all  its  talking  and  bragged  motion, 
it  paid  to  its  common  audit  no  more  than  the  revenues  of  a  little 
cloud  or  a  contemptible  vessel.  So  have  I  sometimes  compared 
the  issues  of  her  religion  to  the  solemnities  and  famed  outsides  of 
another's  piety.  It  dwelt  upon  her  spirit  and  was  incorporated 
with  the  periodical  work  of  every  day.  .  .  .  The  other  append- 
age of  her  religion,  which  also  was  a  great  ornament  to  all  the 
parts  of  her  life,  was  a  rare  modesty  and  humility  of  spirit,  a  con- 
fident undervaluing  and  despising  of  herself.  For,  though  she 
had  the  greatest  judgment  and  the  greatest  experience  of  things 
and  persons,  that  I  ever  jet  knew  in  a  person  of  her  youth  and 
sex  and  circumstances;  yet,  as  if  she  knew  nothing  of  it,  she  had 
the  meanest  opinion  of  herself,  and,  like  a  fair  taper,  when  she 
shined  to  all  the  room,  yet,  round  about  her  own  station,  she 
had  cast  a  shadow  and  a  cloud,  and  she  shined  to  everybody  but 
herself.  .  .  .  But,  so  it  was  that  the  thought  of  death  dwelt  long 
with  her  and  grew,  from  the  first  steps  of  fancy  and  fear,  to  a 
consent,  from  thence  to  a  strange  credulity  and  expectation  of  it ; 
and,  without  the  violence  of  sickness,  she  died,  as  if  she  had  done 
it  voluntarily  and  by  design,  and  for  fear  her  expectation  should 


168  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

have  been  deceived,  or  that  she  should  seem  to  have  had  an  un- 
reasonable fear  or  apprehension,  or  rather  (as  one  said  of  Cato) 
she  died  as  if  she  were  glad  of  the  opportunity." 

JOHN. 

Who  was  this  sainted  lady  ?     Such  a  sermon  were 
almost  worth  dying  for. 

PHILIP. 

Frances,  Countess  of  Carberry.  A  Latin  epitaph 
is  prefixed  to  the  sermon,  doubtless  written  by  Taylor 
himself.  The  first  part  of  it  is  quite  graceful,  but  it 
soon  becomes  anything  but  Ciceronian.  Tlie  great 
advantage  of  using  Latin  for  such  occasions  is,  that  it 
operates  in  some  measure  as  a  check  and  curb  upon 
the  writer,  and  makes  him  dignified  in  spite  of  him- 
self; but  when  lie  breaks  free  of  all  restraint,  as  here, 
the  dead  language  is  more  intolerable  than  the  living 
one.  Perhaps  another  advantage  of  the  Latin  for  this 
proverbial  flattering  kind  of  literature  may  be  found 
in  the  fecundity  of  its  superlatives,  there  being  nothing 
in  our  own  language  that  may  claim  comparison  with 
its  glib  and  liberal  issimuses. — I  do  not  know  whether 
one  little  token  of  the  care  with  Avhich  Taylor  regu- 
lated the  golden  balance  of  his  periods  has  ever  been 
noticed.  I  mean  his  frequent  elision  of  the  letter  e  in 
the  termination  ed,  to  prevent  the  reader  from  accent- 
ing it.  In  this  he  is  always  guided  by  so  delicate  an 
ear  as  stands  him  in  stead  of  metrical  rules. 

JOHN. 

It  is  certainly  worth  remarking. — By  putting  Taylor 
and   Chapman   together,    we   get   such   a   picture   as 


CHAPMAN. 


169 


realizes  Wordsworth's  conception  of  a  perfect  woman, 
such  a  one  as  we  can  love  and  feel  that  therein  we  arc 
made  in  God's  image;  such  a  one  as  makes  love  what 
it  should  be,  venerable,  reverend,  not  a  thing  to  be 
lightly  treated  and  i)ut  on  and  off  like  a  glove. 

PHILIP. 

Spenser  had  a  noble  idea  of  love : 

"  For  love  is  lord  of  truth  and  loyalty, 
Lifting  himself  out  of  the  lowly  dust, 
On  golden  plumes,  up  to  the  highest  sky, 
Ahove  the  reach  of  loathly,  sinful  lust ; 


Such  is  the  power  of  that  sweet  passion. 
That  it  all  sordid  baseness  doth  expel, 
And  the  refined  soul  doth  newly  fashion, 
Unto  a  fairer  form." 

Hymn  of  Love. 

Having  made  an  extract  from  him  whom  Milton 
calls  "  our  sage  and  serious  poet  Spenser,  whom  I  dare 
be  known  to  think  a  better  teacher  than  Scotus  or 
Aquinas,"  let  me  please  myself  still  further  by  hang- 
ing a  sketch  of  his  beside  the  others,  witli  which  it 
harmonizes  fitly.  He  is  speaking  of  a  woman's 
mind : 

"  There  dwell  sweet  love  and  constant  chastity, 
Unspotted  ftiith,  and  comely  womanhood, 
Eegard  of  honor,  and  mild  modesty ; 
There  virtue  reigns  as  queen  in  loyal  throne, 
And  giveth  laws  alone, 
The  which  the  base  affections  do  obey. 
And  yield  their  services  unto  her  will ; 
Nor  thought  of  thing  uncomely  ever  may 
Thereto  approach,  to  tempt  her  mind  to  ill." 

Epithalamion. 


170  THIRD  COXVERSATION. 

Now  repeat  to  yourself  what  you  remember  of  Ten- 
nyson's "  Isabel,"  and  your  mind  will  be  as  full  of 
silent  silvery  images  as  the  heaven  is  of  stars. 

JOHN. 

If  women  fulfilled  truly  their  divine  errand,  there 
would  be  no  need  of  reforming-societies.  The 
memory  of  the  eyes  that  hung  over  a  ftian  in  in- 
fancy and  childhood  will  haunt  him  through  all  his 
after  life.  If  they  were  good  and  holy,  they  will 
cheer  and  encourage  him  in  every  noble  deed,  and 
shame  him  out  of  every  meanness  and  compromise. 

PHILIP. 

In  spite  of  the  side-thrusts  which  you  sometimes 
make  at  my  Abolitionism,  I  am  persuaded  that  you  go 
as  far  as  I  do  in  that  matter.  I  know  your  humor 
for  appearing  what  you  are  not,  in  order,  by  opposi- 
tion, to  draw  out  opinions  upon  the  side  which  you 
really  espouse.  Such  is  your  assumed  liking  for  the 
artificial  school  of  poetry.  You  are  willing  to  assume 
any  disguise  in  order  to  get  into  the  enemy's  camp, 
and,  once  there,  like  Alfred,  you  sing  them  a  song 
that  sends  them  all  to  their  arms.  A  little  while 
ago  you  spoke  approvingly  of  Miss  Kelly ;  if  I  had 
done  it,  the  Thersites-half  of  your  nature  would  have 
been  aroused  at -a  breath.  Do  you  really  love  to  hear 
a  woman  speak  in  public  ? 

JOHN. 

"Why  not  as  well  as  in  private,  or  at  all  ?  If  any 
have  aught  worth  hearing  to  say,  let  them  say,  it  be 


CHAPMAN.  171 

they  men  or  women.  Wc  have  moi-e  tlian  cnongli 
prating  by  those  who  have  nothing  to  tell  n^.  I  never 
heard  that  the  Quaker  women  were  the  worse  for 
preaching,  or  the  men  for  listening  to  them.  If  we 
pardon  such  exhibitions  as  those  of  the  dancing- 
females  on  the  stage,  surely  our  prudery  need  not 
bristle  in  such  a  hedgehog  fashion,  because  a  woman 
in  the  chaste  garb  of  the  Friends  dares  to  plead  in 
public  for  the  downtrodden  cause  of  justice  and  free- 
dom. Or  perhaps  it  is  more  modest  and  maidenly  for 
a  woman  to  expose  her  body  in  public  than  her  soul  ? 
If  we  listen  and  applaud,  while,  as  Coleridge  says, 

"  Heaves  the  proud  harlot  her  distended  breast, 
In  intricacies  of  laborious  song," 

must  we  esteem  it  derogatory  to  our  sense  of  refine- 
ment to  drink  from  the  fresh  brook  of  a  true  woman's 
voice,  as  it  gushes  up  from  a  heart  throbbing  only 
with  tenderness  for  our  neighbor  fallen  among  thieves  ? 
Here  in  Massachusetts  we  burn  Popish  nunneries,  but 
we  maintain  a  whole  system  of  Protestant  ones.  If  a 
woman  is  to  be  an  Amazon,  all  the  cloisters  in  the 
world  would  not  starve  or  compress  her  into  a  Cor- 
delia. There  is  no  sex  in  noble  thoughts,  and  deeds 
agreeing  with  them  ;  and  such  recruits  do  equally  good 
service  in  the  army  of  truth,  whether  they  are  brought 
in  by  women  or  men.  Out  on  our  Janus-faced  virtue, 
with  its  one  front  looking  smilingly  to  the  stage,  and 
its  other  with  shame-shut  eyes  turned  frowningly 
upon  the  Anti-slavery  Convention  !  If  other  reapers 
be  wanting,  let  women  go  forth  into  the  harvest-field 
of  God  and  bind  the  ripe  shocks  of  -  grain  :  the  com- 

tJNIVERBIIl  ; 


172  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

plexion  of  their  souls  shall  not  be  tanned  or  weather- 
stained,  for  the  sun  that  shines  there  only  makes  the 
fairer  and  Avhiter  all  that  it  looks  upon.  Whatever 
is  in  its  place  is  in  the  highest  place;  whatever  is 
right  is  graceful,  noble,  expedient;  and  the  universal 
hiss  of  the  world  shall  fall  upon  it  as  a  benediction, 
and  go  up  to  the  ear  of  God  as  the  most  moving 
prayer  in  its  behalf.  If  a  woman  be  truly  chaste, 
that  chastity  shall  surround  her,  in  speaking  to  a 
public  assembly,  with  a  ring  of  protecting  and  rebuk- 
ing light,  and  make  the  exposed  rostrum  as  private  as 
an  oratory ;  if  immodest,  there  is  that  in  her  which 
can  turn  the  very  house  of  God  into  a  brothel. 

PHILIP. 

I  shall  not  dispute  the  point  with  you.  I  love  to 
hear  the  voices  of  women  anywhere,  but  chiefly  where 
truth  is  pleaded  for ;  they  know  a  shorter  way  to  the 
heart  than  those  of  men  do.  Chapman  valued  woman 
as  highly  as  you  do.     Hear  him. 

"  Let  no  man  value  at  a  little  price 
A  virtuous  woman's  counsel ;  her  winged  spirit 
Is  feathered  oftentimes  with  heavenly  words, 
And,  like  her  beauty,  ravishing  and  pure  ; 
The  weaker  body,  still  the  stronger  soul. 


O,  what  a  treasure  is  a  virtuous  wife, 
Discreet  and  loving !     Not  one  gift  on  earth 
Makes  a  man's  life  so  nighly  bound  to  heaven. 
She  gives  him  double  forces  to  endure 
And  to  enjny,  by  being  one  with  him, 
Feeling  his  joys  and  griefs  with  equal  sense ; 
And,  like  the  twins  Hippocrates  reports. 
If  he  fetch  sighs,  she  draws  her  breath  as  short ; 


CHAPMAN.  173 

If  he  lament,  she  melts  licrself  in  tears  ; 

If  he  be  glad,  she  triumphs  ;  if  he  stir, 

She  moves  his  way  ; 

And  is  in  alterations  passing  strange ; 

Himself  divinely  varied  without  change. 

Gold  is  right  precious,  but  his  price  infects 

With  pride  and  avarice ;  authority  lifts 

Hats  from  men's  heads  and  bows  the  strongest  knees, 

Yet  cannot  bend  in  rule  the  weakest  hearts; 

Music  delights  but  one  sense,  and  choice  meats; 

One  quickly  fades,  the  others  stir  to  sin  ; — 

But  a  true  wife  both  sense  and  soul  delights, 

And  mixeth  not  her  good  with  any  ill  ; 

Her  virtues,  ruling  hearts,  all  powers  command; 

All  store  without  her  leaves  a  man  but  poor, 

And  with  her  poverty  is  exceeding  store ; 

No  time  is  tedious  with  her  ;  her  true  worth 

Makes  a  true  husband  think  his  arms  enfold 

(With  her  alone)  a  complete  world  of  gold." 

Gentleman  Usher. 

Here  is  something  very  beautiful : 

"Exceeding  fair  she  was  not,  and  yet  fair 
In  that  she  never  studied  to  be  fairer 
Than  Nature  meant  her ;   beauty  cost  her  nothing." 

All  Fools. 

Of  love  he  says : 

"  Love  is  nature's  second  sun, 
Causing  a  spring  of  virtues  where  he  shines ; 
And  as,  without  the  sun,  the  world's  great  eye, 
All  colors,  beauties,  both  of  art  and  nature. 
Are  given  in  vain  to  men  ;  so,  without  love. 
All  beauties  bred  in  women  are  in  vain. 
All  virtues  born  in  men  lie  buried ; 
For  love  infoi-ms  us  as  the  sun  doth  colors  : 
And,  as  the  sun,  reflecting  his  warm  beams 
Against  the  earth,  begets  all  fruits  and  flowers. 
So  loi:e,fair  shining  in  the  inward  man. 


174  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

Brings  forth  in  him  the  honorable  fruits 
Of  valor,  wit,  virtue,  and  haughty  thoughts, 
Brave  resolution,  and  divine  discourse." 


Ibid. 


JOHX. 

Yes  ;  and,  wanting  love,  a  man  remains  nailed  to 
the  dreadful  cross  of  self  without  help  or  hope.  I 
begin  to  feel  that  Chapman  is  truly  a  poet.  A  tricks- 
ter, a  man  who  loves  the  art  for  the  applause  it  wins 
him,  or  runs  about  seeking  for  Apollo's  arrows  because 
they  are  of  gold,  concentrates  all  our  admiration  upon 
himself;  a  true  poet  makes  us  forget  himself,  makes 
life  and  the  whole  human  race  grow  more  noble  in  our 
eyes.  It  is  only  when  the  instruments  are  poor  and 
meagre  or  out  of  tune,  that  we  think  of  them,  and  are 
conscious  of  aught  but  the  music  they  give  birth  to,  or 
the  divine  emotions  that  rise,  like  Venus,  rosy  and 
dripping,  from  its  golden  waves. 

PHILIP. 

Chapman's  poetry  abounds  in  striking  aphorisms, 
which  often  serve  to  clench  and  rivet  the  sense ;  but  he 
is  so  fond  of  them,  that  he  welds  them  on  sometimes 
as  if  at  random,  or  even  sticks  them  lightly  to  the  text 
with  a  frail  wafer.  In  themselves,  they -are  always 
full  of  earnest  sense  and  philosophy.  Here  are  a  few 
examples : 

"  Time's  golden  tliigh 
Upholds  the  flowery  body  of  the  earth 
In  sacred  harmony,  and  every  birth 
Of  men  and  actions  makes  legitimate, 
Being  used  aright :  the  use  of  time  is  fate." 

.  Hero  and  Leander. 


CHAPMAN.  175 

"  Custom,  vhich  the  apoplexy  is 
Of  bedrid  nature^ 

Ibid. 

"  Who  knows  not 
Venus  would  seem  as  fair  from  any  spot 
Of  light  demeanor,  as  the  very  skin 
'Twixt  Cynthia's  brows  !     Sin  is  ashamed  of  sin." 

Ibid. 


"  Ah,  nothing  doth  the  world  with  mischiejfdl, 
Bat  want  of  feeling  one  another's  ill." 

"  That  which  does  good  disgraceth  no  degree." 


Rid. 


Ibid. 


Before  I  shut  ''  Hero  and  Leauder,"  I  will  read  you 
a  few  other  passages,  though  in  a  wholly  different  vein, 
Tiiey  show  the  author  in  his  most  graceful  and  amiable 
aspect.     This  is  a  pretty  little  rustic  landscape : 

"  A  country  virgin,  keeping  of  a  vine. 
Who  did  of  hollow  bulrushes  combine 
Snares  for  the  stubble-loving  grasshopper  ; 
And  by  her  lay  her  scrip  that  nourished  her. 
Within  a  myrtle-shade  she  sat  and  sung. 
And  tufts  of  wavering  reeds  about  her  sprung, 
Where  lurked  two  foxes,  that,  while  she  applied 
Her  trifling  snares,  their  thieveries  did  divide, 
One  to  the  vine,  another  to  her  scrip 
That  she  did  negligently  overslip  ; 
By  which  her  fruitful  vine  and  wholesome  fare 
She  let  be  spoiled  to  make  a  childish  snare." 

After  an  unpropitious  sacrifice, 

"  Hero  wept ;  but  her  affrighted  eyes 
She  quickly  wrested  from  the  sacrifice, 


176  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

Shut  them,  and  inward  for  Leander  looked, 
Searched  her  soft  bosom,  and  from  thence  she  plucked 
His  lovely  picture  ;  which  when  she  had  viewed, 
Her  beauties  were  with  all  love's  joys  renewed  ; 
The  odors  sweetened,  and  the  fires  burned  clejir  ; 
Leandei-'sform  left  no  ill  object  there." 

This  is  beautiful,  and  ends  with  a  fine  truth : 

"Her  chamber  her  cathedral-church  should  be. 
And  her  Leander  her  chief  deity. 
For,  in  her  love,  these  did  the  gods  forego ; 
And,  though  her  knowledge  did  not  teach  her  so, 
Yet  it  did  teach  her  this,  that  wliat  her  heart 
Did  greatest  hold     ..... 
That  she  did  make  her  god  ;  and  'twas  less  naught 
To  leave  gods  in  profession  and  in  thought 
Than  in  her  love  and  life  ;  for  therein  lie 
Most  of  jher  duties  and  their  dignity ; 
And,  rati  the  brainbald  world  at  what  it  will, 
Thais  the  grand  atheism  that  reigns  in  it  still !  " 

These  two  similes  are  very  fresh  : 

"  His  most  kind  sister  all  his  secrets  knew, 
And  to  her,  singing,  like  a  shoirer  he  flew." 

"  Home  to  the  mourning  city  they  repair 
With  news  as  u'holesome  as  the  morning  air." 

I  must  unwillingly  lay  down  the  little  volume,  and 

come  back  to  glean  a  few  more  aphoristic  sentences. 

"  As  the  light 
Not  only  serves  to  show,  but  render  us 
Mutually  profitable,  so  our  lives. 
In  acts  exemplary,  not  only  win 
Ourselves  good  names,  but  do  to  others  give 
Matter  for  virtuous  deeds  by  which  we  live." 

lyAmbois. 

"  Who  to  himself  is  law  no  law  doth  need, 
Offends  no  law,  and  is  a  king  indeed." 

Jbid. 


CHAPMAN.  177 


"Each  natural  agent  works  but  to  this  end, 
To  render  that  it  works  on  like  itself." 


Ibid. 


"  He  that  observes  but  as  a  worldly  man 
That  which  doth  oft  succeed,  and  by  the  events 
Values  the  worth  of  things,  will  think  it  true 

That  Nature  works  at  random : 

But,  with  as  much  proportion,  she  may  make 
A  thing  that  from  the  feet  up  to  the  throat 
Hath  all  the  wondrous  fabric  man  should  have, 
And  leave  it  headless,  for  a  perfect  man  ; 
As  give  a  full  man  valor,  virtue,  learning, 
"Without  an  end  more  excellent  than  those 
On  whom  she  no  such  worthy  parts  bestows." 

Ibid. 

"  Virtue  is  not  malicious  ;  wrong  done  her 
Is  righted  ever,  when  men  grant  they  err." 

Monsieur  U  Olive. 

"  He  is  at  no  end  of  his  actions  blest, 
Whose  ends  will  make  him  greatest  and  not  best." 

Byron's  Tragedy. 

Here  is  a  flue  metaphor : 

"  Thy  impartial  words 
Are  like  brave  falcons,  that  dare  truss  a  fowl 
Much  greater  than  themselves." 

D'Ambois. 

And  this : 


"The  chain-shot  of  thy  lust  is  yet  aloft. 
And  it  must  murder." 


Ibid. 


And  this 


"  As  night  the  life-inclining  stars  best  shows, 
So  lives  obscOre  the  starriest  souls  disclose." 

Epilogue  to  Translations. 
12 


178  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

The  passions  he  calls 

"  Those  base  foes  that  insult  on  weakness, 
And  still  fight  housed  behind  the  shield  of  nature." 

lyAmbois. 

There  is  something  grand  and    mysterious  in  this 

invocation  of  a  spirit : 

"  Terror  of  darkness !     O  thou  king  of  flames, 

That  with  thy  music-footed  horse  dost  strike 

The  clear  light  out  of  crystal  on  dark  earth, 

And  hurl'st  instructive  fire  about  the  world. 

Wake,  wake  the  drowsy  and  enchanted  night 

That  sleeps  with  dead  eyes  in  this  heavy  riddle  ! 

O  thou  great  prince  of  shades  where  never  sun 

Sticks  his  far-darted  beams,  whose  eyes  are  made 

To  shine  in  darkness  and  see  ever  best 

Where  men  are  blindest ! " 

Ibid. 

The  vague  terrors  of  guilt  are  thus  graphically  set 

forth: 

"  O  my  dear  servant,  in  thy  close  embraces 
/  have  set  open  all  the  doors  of  danger 
To  my  encompassed  honor  and  my  life  ! 
Before,  I  was  secure  'gainst  death  and  hell. 
But  now  am  subject  to  the  heartless  fear 
Of  every  shadow  and  of  every  breath. 
And  would  change  firmness  with  an  aspen  leaf; 
So  confident  a  spotless  conscience  is, 
So  weak  a  guilty." 

Ibid. 

Chapman's  self-reliant  nature  is  continually  peeping 
forth  from  under  every  mask  it  puts  on  : 

"  When  men  fly  the  natural  clime  of  truth. 
And  turn  themselves  loose  out  of  all  the  bounds 
Of  justice  and  the  straight  way  to  their  ends. 
Forsaking  all  the  sure  force  in  themselves, 


CHAPMAN.  179 

To  seek  without  them  that  wliich  is  not  theirs, 
The  forms  of  all  their  comforts  are  distracted." 

Byron's  Tragedy. 

Pie  thus  gives  us  his  notion  of  what  a  man  sliould 
be: 

"Give  me  a  spirit  that  on  life's  rough  sea 
Loves  to  have  his  sails  filled  with  a  lusty  wind, 
Elven  till  his  sail-5'ards  tremble,  his  masts  crack, 
And  his  rapt  ship  run  on  her  sides  so  low. 
That  she  drinks  water,  and  her  keel  ploughs  air. 
There  is  no  danger  to  a  man  who  knows 
What  life  and  death  are  ;  therms  not  any  law 
HJxceeds  his  knowledge  ;  neither  is  it  lauful 
That  he  shoidd  stoop  to  any  other  law  : 
He  goes  before  them  and  commands  them  all, 
Who  to  himself  is  a  law  rational." 

Byron's  Conspiracy. 

JOHN. 

Altogether  noble !  The  first  few  verses  illustrate 
v\-ell  the  natural  impetuosity  which  so  much  distin- 
guished Chapman's  character,  as  I  gather  it  from  what 
you  have  read  ;  and  the  last  six  exhibit  the  philosophic 
3;ravity  and  wisdom  to  which  habits  of  reflection  and 
the  life  of  a  scholar  had  tempered  it.  He  must  have 
been  one  of  those  incongruities  we  sometimes  meet 
with;  a  man,  calm  and  lofty  in  his  theory,  but  velie- 
nient  and  fiery  to  excess  in  action, — whose  very  still- 
ness, like  the  sleep  of  the  top,  seems  the  result  of 
intense  motion. 

PHILIP. 

The  same  indomitable  spirit  shows  itself  in  all  Chap- 
man's characters.     Even  their  humility  is  a  kind  of 


180  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

repressed    and   concentrated    pride.     He    makes  the 
Duke  de  Byron  say : 

"  To  fear  a  vio!ent  good  abuseth  goodness ; 
'T  is  immortality  to  die  aspiring, 
As  if  a  man  were  taken  quick  to  heaven. 
What  will  not  hold  perfection,  let  it  burst : 
What  force  hath  any  cannon,  not  being  charged, 
Or  being  not  discharged  ?     To  have  stufi'  and  form, 
And  to  lie  idle,  fearful,  and  unused. 
Nor  form  nor  stuff  shows.     Happy  Semele, 
That  died,  compressed  with  glory  !     Happiness 
Denies  comparison  of  less  or  more, 
And,  not  at  most,  is  nothing. — Like  the  shaft, 
Shot  at  the  sun  by  angry  Hercules, 
And  into  shivers  by  the  thunder  broken, 
Will  I  be,  if  1  burst;  and  in  my  heart 
This  shall  bewntten :  '  Yet  't  was  high  and  right!'  " 

JOHX. 

Chapman's  pride  has  at  least  all  the  grandeur  in  it 
that  pride  can  ever  have  ;  but,  at  best,  pride  and  weak- 
ness are  Siamese  twins,  knit  together  by  an  indissol- 
uble hyphen. — What  a  gloriously  exulting  comparison 
is  that  of  the  shaft  of  Hercules  !  The  metre  also  seems 
to  my  ear  very  full  and  majestic. 


PHILIP. 

Even  his  devils  are  still  Chapman.     The  Evil  Spirit 
says  to  D'Ambois : 

"  Why  call'dst  tliou  me  to  this  accursed  light 
For  these  light  purposes  ?     I  am  empei-or 
Of  that  inscrutable  darkness  where  are  hid 
All  deepest  truths  and  secrets  never  seen, 


CHAPMAN.  181 

All  which  I  know,  and  command  legions 

Of  knowing  spirits  can  do  more  than  these. 

Any  of  this  mt/  guard  that  circle  me 

In  these  blue  Jives,  from  out  of  whose  dim  fumes 

Vast  murmurs  use  to  break;  and,  from  these  sounds, 

Articidar  voices,  can  do  ten  parts  more 

Than  open  such  slight  truths  as  you  require." 

I  know  nothing  in  Marlow's  mighty  line  grander 
han  this.  Ford's  description  of  hell,  though  striking, 
eems  too  much  like  a  bill  of  particulars,  (if  I  remember 
t  rightly,)  and  has  a  kind  of  ditto-ditto  air,  which 
ooks  quite  ordinary  beside  the  mysterious  and  half- 
iidden  grandeur  of  these  verses.  This  is  such  a  pict- 
ire  as  Fuseli  would  have  painted.— Here  is  something 
n  a  softer  key  : 

"  A  man that  only  would  uphold 

Man  in  his  native  noble.ss,  from  whose  fall 

All  our  dissensions  rise ;  that  in  himself 

(Without  these  outivard  badges  of  our  frailty, 

Riches  and  honor)  knows  he  comprehends 

Worth  with  the  greatest.     King  had  never  borne 

Such  boundless  empire  over  other  men, 

Had  all  maintained  the  spirit  and  state  of  D'Ambois; 

IS'or  had  the  full,  impartial  hand  of  Nature, 

That  all  things  gave  in  their  original, 

Without  these  defuiite  terms  of  mine  and  thine, 

Been  turned  unjustly  to  the  hand  of  Fortune, 

Had  all  preserved  her  in  her  prime  like  D'Ambois; 

No  envy,  no  disjunction,  had  dissolved 

Or  plucked  one  stick  out  of  the  golden  fagot 

In  ii'hich  the  world  of  Saturn  bound  our  lives, 

Had  all  been  held  together  by  the  nerves, 

The  genius,  and  the  ingenious  soul  of  D'Ambois." 

You  have  by  this  time  got  a  very  good  idea  of  Chap- 
man's   more   prominent   and   worthy    characteristics. 


182  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

His  comedies  show  hira  to  have  been  not  altosrether 
devoid  of  hnmor,  thongh  he  does  not  possess  the  faculty 
in  that  exuberance  without  which  it  has  too  much  appar- 
ent machination  to  be  interesting.  Monsieur  D'Olive  is 
an  amusing  character,  but  his  fun  is  chiefly  traditional. 
There  is  one  interesting  point  in  Chapman's  comedies, 
and  that  is,  a  trace,  discernible  here  and  there,  of  his 
admiration  for  Shakespeare,  showing  itself  in  a  word 
or  turn  of  expression  suggested  by  him.  There  are 
several  examples  in  his  tragedies,  too,  some  of  which 
are  remarkable.  I  confess  I  love  Chapman  the  better 
for  it. — I  must  give  you  one  more  example  of  his  fine 
poetic  instinct.  Just  before  a  ghost  appears  to  D'Am- 
bois,  he  says : 

"  What  violent  heat  is  this?     Methinks  the  fire 
Of  twenty  lives  doth,  on  a  sudden,  flash 
Through  all  my  Jacxdties :  the  air  goes  high 
In  this  close  chamber,  and  the  frighted  earth 
Trembles  and  shrinks  beneath  me." 

This  is  excellent. — It  would  be  unfair  not  to  show 
you  the  enthusiastic  love  which  Chapman  felt  for  our 
native  language,  hallowed,  as  it  has  been,  by  the  use 
of  the  noblest  poets  that  ever  dignified  the  earth.  In 
his  address  to  the  reader,  prefatory  to  his  translation 
of  the  Iliad,  he  says : 

"  And  for  our  tongue,  that  still  is  .<io  impaired 
By  travelling  linguists,  I  can  prove  it  clear 
That  no  tongue  hath  the  Muse's  utterance  hcired — 
For  verse,  and  that  sweet  music  to  the  ear. 
Struck  out  of  rhyme — so  naturally  us  this  ; 
Our  monosyllables  so  kindly  fall, 
And  meet,  opposed  in  rhyme,  as  they  did  kiss." 


CHAPMAN.  183 

So  in  his  "  JTi/mnm  in  Cynthiam" : 

"  Sweet  Poe-sy 
Will  not  be  clad  in  her  supremacy 
With  these  strange  garments  (Rome's  liexametci-s), 
As  like  w  Enrjllsh  ;  but  in  right  prefers 
Our  native  robes,  put  on  with  skilful  hands." 

Chapman's  vigor  of  thought  and  expression  may  be 
seen  in  every  page  of  his  writing.  Here  is  a  fragment 
of  his  prose  ;  he  is  speaking  of  critics. 

"How,  then,  may  a  man  stay  his  marvelling  to  see  passion- 
driven  men,  reading  but  to  curtail  a  tedious  hour,  and  altogether  hide- 
bound with  affection  to  great  men  s  fancies,  take  upon  them  as  killing 
censures  as  if  they  uere  judgment's  butchers,  or  as  if  the  life  of  truth 
lay  tottering  in  their  verdicts? 

"Now  what  a  supererogation  in  wit  this  is,  to  think  skill  so 
mightily  pierced  with  their  loves  that  she  should  prostitutely  show 
them  her  secrets,  token  she  will  scarcely  be  looked  upon  by  others  hit 
with  invocation,  fasting,  watching,  yea,  not  without  having  drops  of  their 
souls,  like  a  heavenly  familiar .' "  * 

JOHN. 

Tliis  has  a  taste  of  Milton  in  it.  That  metaphor  of 
the  heavenly  familiar  is  exceedingly  beautiful.  It  is 
no  wonder  that  men  wrote  well  who  looked  upon  their 
art  with  such  religion. 

PHILIP. 

It  reminds  me  rather  of  Samuel  Daniel's  "  Defense 

of   Rime,"  one  of  the  noblest  pieces  of  prose  in  the 

language,  dignified,  eloquent,  enthusiastic,  and  full  of 

rich   thoughts,   richly  clad   in   the   singing-robes  of 

*  Dedicatory  Epistle  to  hie  Original  Hymns. 


184  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

choicest  speech. — Now  let  us  see  how  such  a  man  as 
Chapman  would  die. 

"  Let  me  alone  in  peace ; 
Leave  my  soul  to  me  whom  it  most  concerns ; 
You  have  no  charge  of  her ;  I  feel  her  free  : 
How  she  doth  rome,  and,  like  a  falcon,  stretch 
Her  silver  icings,  as  threatenimj  Death  idth  death, 
At  whom  I  joyfidly  will  cast  her  off  / 
I  know  this  body  but  a  sink  of  folly ; 
The  groundwork  and  raised  frame  of  woe  and  frailty ; 
The  bond  and  bundle  of  corruption ; 
A  quick  corpse,  only  sensible  of  grief; 

A  walking  sepulchre ; 

A  glass  of  air,  broken  with  less  than  breath  ; 

A  slave  bound  face  to  face  with  Death,  till  death: 

And  what  said  all  you  more  ?     I  know,  besides, 

That  life  is  but  a  dark  and  stormy  night 

Of  senseless  dreams,  terrors,  and  broken  sleeps ; 

A  tyranny  devising  but  to  plague, 

And  make  man  long  in  dying,  rack  his  death, — 

And  death  is  nothing :  what  can  you  say  more  ? 

/  being a  little  earth, 

Am  seated,  like  earth,  betwixt  both  the  heavens, 

That,  if  I  j'ise,  to  heaven  I  rise  ;  if  fall, 

I  likewise  fall  to  heaven:  what  stronger  faith 

Hath  any  of  your  souls  ?     What  say  you  more  ? 

Why  lose  I  time  in  these  things  ?    Talk  of  knowledge, 

It  serves  for  inward  use.     I  will  not  die 

Like  to  a  clergyman,  but  like  the  captain 

That  prayed  on  horseback,  and,  with  sword  in  hand. 

Threatened  tlie  sun." 

Byron^  Tragedy, 

JOHN. 

That  is  not  unlike  Byron  ;  but  there  is  a  finer  and 
more  untrammelled  enthusiasm  about  it  than  he  could 
rise  to  without  eifort.     The  melody  of  some  verses  in 


CHAPMAN.  185 

it  is  enchanting.  What  an  airiness,  as  of  the  blue, 
unbounded  sky,  there  is  in  that  passage  about  the 
falcon  !  One  feels  as  if  it  could  not  have  been  spoken 
but  on  a  lofty  scaifold  with  only  the  arch  of  heaven 
overhead.  The  whole  is  very  grand,  but  there  is  too 
much  defiance  in  it.  It  is  not  so  grand  as  would  be 
the  death  of  one  who  had  learned,  with  Leigh  Hunt, 
to  know  that 

"  Patience  and  gentleness  are  power." 

The  great  spirit  does  not  fling  down  the  gauntlet  to 
Death,  but  welcomes  him  as  a  l)rother-angel,  who, 
knowing  the  way  better,  is  to  be  his  guide  to  his  new- 
workiug-place,  and  who,  perchance,  also  led  him  hither 
from  some  dimmer  sphere.  "  The  great  good  man," 
says  Coleridge,  has 

"  three  sure  friends  : 
Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death." 

PHILIP. 

You  must  remember,  however,  that  Chapman's  hero 
was  a  soldier.     Let  us  read  another  death-scene. 

"  Let  my  death 
Define  life  nothins:  but  a  courtier's  breath  ; 
Kothing  is  made  of  naught ;  of  all  things  made, 
The  abstract  is  a  dream  but  of  a  shade. 
I'll  not  complain  to  earth  yet,  but  to  heaven. 
And  (like  a  man)  look  upward  even  in  death; 
And  if  Vespasian  thought  in  majesty 
An  emperor  might  die  standing,  why  not  I? 

{One  offers  to  help  him.) 
Nay,  without  help,  in  which  I  will  exceed  him ; 
For  he  died  splinted  with  his  chambersmoms. 
Prop  me,  true«word,  as  thou  hast  ever  done  : 


186  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

The  equal  thought  I  bear  of  life  and  death 
Shall  make  me  faint  on  no  side;  I  am  up 
Here  like  a  Roman  statue;  I  wiM  stand 
Till  death  have  made  me  marble." 


JOHN. 


D'Amhois. 


This  is  great,  but  it  is  the  greatness  of  a  heathen ; 
of  one  who  would,  no  doubt,  maintain  an  aristocracy 
in  dying,  and  prefer  the  traditionary  respectability  of 
the  axe  to  the  degradation  of  the  cross,  and  could  not 
be  decently  choked  out  of  existence  but  with  a  cord 
of  silk.  For  there  are  those  who  would  carry  only 
the  vanities  and  titles  of  life  out  of  it  with  them,  and 
would  have  a  blazon  of  arms  from  the  Herald's  Col- 
lege buried  with  them,  (as  the  red  men  do  arms  of  a 
more  serviceable  kind,)  to  be  a  certificate  of  admission 
to  the  higher  circles  in  the  next  world.  How  truly 
ludicrous,  by  the  Avay,  is  this  claim  of  subterranean 
precedence,  this  solicitude  of  epitaphs  to  be  exact  in 
giving  their  due  titles  to  the  deceased,  as  if  the  poor 
ghost  were  to  lug  about  his  tombstone  as  a  visiting- 
card  or  a  diploma !  And  if  this  were  the  case,  how 
contradictory  would  some  of  our  titular  dignitaries 
look,  (stripped,  as  they  would  be  there,  of  all  outward 
appliances,)  whose  grandeur  is  determinable  by  paral- 
lels of  latitude,  and,  who,  though  "  Honorables "  in 
their  own  state,  may  become  quite  f//s-honorable  by 
simply  stepping  across  the  border !  Would  not  the 
shade  of  a  general,  for  instance,  which  should  come 
staggering  to  the  gate  of  immortality  under  the  weight 
of  marble  renown  piled  over  his  ashes  by  a  grateful 
country,  with  such  letters  of  introduction  as  an  epitaph 


CHAPMAN.  187 

detailing  his  numerous  services  Avoukl  snpj>ly,  be 
ranked  side  by  side  with  tliat  of  a  Pawnee  brave, 
which  should  rush  whooping  in  with  its  ccpially 
civilized  recommendations  in  the  shape  of  a  string  of 
scalps?  It  is  lucky  that  we  are  not  taxed  to  believe 
the  stories  which  epitaphs  tell  us,  or  we  should  be  in 
despair  of  the  world,  thinking  that  all  the  good  and 
great  had  gone  out  of  it.  But  whither  have  I  wan- 
dered in  the  grave-yard? 

PHILIP. 

We  have  not  got  Chapman's  hero  thither  yet.  Let 
us  hear  the  last : 

"  O  frail  condition  of  strength,  valor,  virtue, 
In  me  (like  -warning-fire  upon  the  top 
Of  some  steep  beacon  on  a  steeper  hill) 
Made  to  express  it !  like  a  falling  star. 
Silently  glanced,  that,  like  a  thunderbolt. 
Looked  to  have  struck  and  shook  the  firmament ! " 

We  see  that  the  "  equal  thought "  which  he  imag- 
ined that  he  bore  of  life  or  death,  in  the  moment  of 
inspiring  exultation  at  the  idea  of  dying  more  impe- 
rially than  an  emperor,  breaks  under  him  as  the  earth 
crumbles  away  beneath  his  feet.  This  must  neces- 
sarilv  be  the  case  with  all  greatness  whose  sustenance 
is  drawn  from  the  things  of  this  world.  It  is  but  a 
poor  weed,  which  may  grow  up,  in  that  loose,  rich  soil, 
in  a  single  night,  to  wilt  and  wither  as  soon.  After 
all,  the  great  secret  is,  to  learn  how  little  the  world  is, 
while  we  are  yet  living  in  it.  It  is  no  hard  lesson  after 
we  are  removed  from  it,  and  it  looks  but  like  a  grain 


188  THIRD   CONVERSATION. 

of  dim  gold-dust  in  the  infinite  distance.  Every  day 
of  our  lives  we  jostle  carelessly  by  a  thousand  human 
souls,  each  one  of  which  is  greater  and  more  substantial 
than  this  tiny  cockleshell  of  a  planet,  in  which  we 
cruise  so  securely  through  the  shoreless  ocean  of  space, 
one  larger  ripple  of  which  would  sink  it  for  ever.  And 
yet  we  build  monuments  and  scratch  inscriptions  upon 
its  thin  deck,  and  garner  stores  in  its  slender-ribbed 
hold,  as  for  an  eternal  voyage ;  and  shout  our  nothings 
into  the  tired  ear  of  the  great  Silence  round  about  us, 
as  if  our  jackstraw  controversies  were  worth  breaking 
its  august  slumbers  with.  /' 

JOHN. 

A  morality  whose  strict  application  would  put  an 
end  to  our  conversations  for  the  future.  But  I  am  not 
so  easily  silenced. — To  all  men  the  moment  of  death  is 
one  of  inspiration  ;  a  feeling  of  sublimity  must  enlarge 
the  heart  and  deepen  the  utterance  of  the  meanest,  as 
earth  swims  away  from  under,  and  leaves  him 
alone,  on  his  new-born  wings,  in  the  great  void  infinite. 
It  were  harder,  I  imagine,  to  talk  basely  than  nobly, 
when  the  soul  is  waitins;  but  for  her  orreen  and  callow 
pinions  to  toughen,  and  already  forecasts  her  majestic 
flight.  There  are  souls  whose  chrysalides  seem  to  have 
burst  and  their  wings  to  have  expanded  in  this  life,  so 
that  they  can  at  any  time  lift  themselves  to  that  clear- 
aired  point  of  vantage  to  which  death  only  raises  the 
vulgar ;  souls,  whose  flesh  seems  to  have  been  given 
them  but  to  make  them  capable  of  action  while  they 
are  the  ministers  of  God's  providence  to  their  brothers 
upon  earth. 


CHAPMAN.  189 

PHILIP. 
But  Chapman  does  uot  seeiu  to  have  been  one  of 

these 

"  world's  high-priests  who  do  present 
The  sacrifice  for  all," 

as  George  Herbert  calls  them.  He  was  one  of  those 
impulsive  natures,  the  fruit  of  whose  age  is  nowise 
answerable  to  the  abundant  blossoming  of  their  youth  ; 
who  expend,  in  a  few  dazzling  flashes,  that  electricity, 
which,  if  equally  dispersed  and  circulated,  might  have 
made  part  of  the  world's  healthful  atmosphere.  Such 
men  must  feel,  in  dying,  that  their  lives  have  been 
incomplete,  and  must  taste  the  overwhelming  bitter- 
ness of  knowing  that  might  have  been  can  bear 
but  a  moment's  semblance  of  was,  from  which  it  dif- 
fers as  much  as  the  silent  streak  of  a  meteor  from  the 
perfect  circling  and  fulfilment  of  a  peaceful  star.  He 
knew  not  how,  in  the  words  of  his  brother  dramatist, 

Ford, 

"to  glorify  his  greatness  with  humility"  ; 

a  plant,  which,  lowly  and  despised  of  men,  roots  itself 
in  eternity,  and  grows  to  be  the  lofty  and  unrivable 
trunk  of  secure  self-sustain ment ;  while  pride  can  never 
spring  in  any  soil  less  gross  than  that  of  earth.  Yet 
Chapman  was  cast  in  a  huge  mould  ;  there  was  stuff 
enough  in  him  to  have  made  some  half  a  dozen  mod- 
ern poets,  and  the  parings  might  have  been  kneaded 
into  a  novelist  or  two. 

JOHN. 

That  is  not  like  you.     It  is  a  mean  and  fugitive 


190  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

philosopliy,  that  would  hush  its  conscience  by  pretend- 
ing to  believe  that  only  the  scum  and  lees  of  time  are 
left  to  us.  Is  not  AVordsworth  a  modern  poet  ?  Put 
such  a  brain  as  Chapman's  inside  of  Wordsworth's 
skull,  and  it  would  have  as  much  room  as  a  mouse  in 
the  cave  of  Kentucky ;  it  would  be  awed  alike  by  the 
brooding  silence  and  the  gigantic  whispers,  and  would 
creep  into  a  dark  corner  to  hide  itself.  Chapman's 
rude  and  angry  hand  would  have  shivered  the  tiiou- 
sand  delicate  strings  of  that  wondrous  lyre  of  Rydal, — ■ 
so  sensitive,  that  even  the  light  fingers  of  the  sunshine 
can  make  it  tremble ;  and  which  has  a  string  to  answer 
all  sounds  in  nature,  from  the  murmur  of  the  breeze 
and  the  brook,  up  to  the  confused  moan  of  humanity, 
with  melody  or  pathos  more  ravishing  than  their  own. 
No ;  the  strength  of  our  old  poets  lay  in  their  uncon- 
scious independence.  Now,  most  volumes  of  poems 
have  a  clipped  and  suppressed  look ;  and  if  there  be 
any  freedom  about  them,  it  has  a  deprecatory  and 
beseeching  air,  as  if  it  would  say,  like  one  of  our  gov- 
ernor's proclamations,  "  With  the  advice  and  consent 
of  the  Council."  Or  if  they  assume  an  independent 
bearing,  there  seems  to  be  a  consciousness  and  determi- 
nation about  it,  which  robs  it  of  its  dignity  and  de- 
grades it  into  a  swaggering  strut.  I  dare  not  say  that 
Wordsworth  has  not  sometimes  been  guihy  of  this ; 
that  he  has  not  sometimes  preferred  an  unconsciousness 
(if  I  may  speak  so  contradictorily)  of  his  own  contriv- 
ing, to  that  entire  unconditional  surrender  of  himself 
which  the  INIuse  demands.  The  oracular  voices  of  the 
deep  shun  him  who  follows  them  for  the  mere  sake  of 
being  the  depositary  and  organ  of  their  secrets ;  as  he 


CHAPMAN.  191 

pursues,  they  fly  before  him,  and  leave  hira  to  be  de- 
ceived by  mocking  intelligences  which  he  mistakes  for 
theirs ; — but  they  throng  around  him  whose  only  prayer 
has  been  for  a  humble,  self-forgetting  heart;  him  who 
has  wrestled  in  tearful,  mad  agony  with  the  deceitful 
pride  of  intellect,  and  attained  at  last  to  that  serene 
heio;ht  of  humbleness  whence  all  the  kino^doms  of  this 
world  maybe  seen  and  rejected, and  which  give  all  the 
glory  to  God.  ]\ly  heart  is  sick,  when  I  behold  the 
gallant  vessels  and  richdaden  argosies  which  have  left 
port  with  confident  cheers  and  hopes  of  the  multitude, 
to  make  shipwreck  at  last,  and  strew  their  wasted 
freight  upon  the  bleak  strand  of  Ambition  ! 

PHILIP. 

I  believe  you  are  right,  when  you  say  that  the  fault 
of  our  modern  poets  lies  in  their  want  of  independence 
and  unconsciousness.  But  how  can  this  be  otherwise, 
when  criticism  has  become  so  personal  a  matter, — when 
the  critic  writes  always  as  a  friend  or  enemy,  not  of  the 
book  or  its  principles,  but  of  the  author  ?  How  can 
Poesy  look  or  feel  unconcerned,  when  Criticism  is  con- 
tinually opening  the  door  of  her  dressing-closet,  or  at 
least  keeping  her  sedulous  eye  at  the  key-hole  ?  But, 
surely,  the  modern  Engllsli  dramatists  are  the  least 
unconscious  of  mortals.  They  own  certain  qualities 
of  mind  among  them  in  common,  like  stage-properties. 
Their  whole  life  as  authors  seems  to  consist  in  playing 
off  a  farce  in  Avhich  all  the  Elizabethan  dramatists  are 
pereonated  in  turn.  Each  selects  his  character,  and  is 
thereafter  recognized  by  the  rest  only  in  that  assumed 
garb.     Mr.  Jenkins  has  all  the  tenderness  of  Ford, 


192  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

Mr.  Tompkins  has  more  than  the  imagination  of  Web- 
ster, and  Mr.  Simpkins  unites  the  fire  of  Marlowe  with 
the  sound  sense  of  Massinger.  This  is  all  very  fine, 
and  affords  the  world  matter  for  a  laugh  ;  but  it  is 
quite  idle  for  them  to  try  to  drive  life  into  their  dead 
forms  by  touching  them  to  the  bones  of  those  old 
buried  prophets.  There  are  men  among  them  who 
would  write  better  plays  than  Ford  or  Massinger,  if 
they  could  only  forget  for  a  day  or  two  that  Ford  and 
Massinger  ever  lived.  If  Shakespeare  had  striven  only 
to  emulate  "  Gorboduc,"  we  should  never  have  heard 
of  him.  What  free  motion  can  we  expect  to  see  in  a 
man  who  carries  about  with  him,  wherever  he  goes,  a 
pair  of  funeral  urns,  one  upon  each  arm  ?  If  I  want 
an  old  dramatist,  I  have  only  to  turn  to  my  shelves 
and  invite  myself  to  be  of  his  company,  sure  of  an 
honest  welcome  ;  but  I  do  not  like  to  find  him  stand- 
ing, scrimped  up  as  small  as  possible  in  order  to  escape 
notice,  behind  the  side-scenes  in  a  modern  play,  where 
I  must  stumble  over  his  toes  at  every  turn.  There  are 
characters  in  the  British  drama,  which  seem  to  possess 
the  longevity  of  the  Wandering  Jew,  and  the  pertina- 
cious vitality  of  the  clown  in  a  pantomime.  After 
beholding  them,  not  without  secret  satisfaction,  killed 
in  the  massacre  of  the  innocents  at  the  end  of  one  tra- 
gedy, they  suddenly  revive  in  tlie  middle  of  another, 
looking  as  indifferent  as  if  nothing  special  had  hap- 
pened ;  and,  to  increase  the  wonder,  they  commonly 
appear,  like  the  posthumous  heroes  of  a  wax-collection, 
in  the  identical  clothes  they  had  on  when  they  were  mur- 
dered. Practice  lias  made  them  perfect  in  this  strange 
accomplishment;  they  have  died  so  often  as  to  make 


CHAPMAX.  193 

nothing  of  it.  I  have  asked  my  legal  friends  if  some 
process  might  not  be  sued  out  to  keep  them  dead  ;  but 
the  weak  point  in  the  case  seems  to  lie  in  the  want  of 
evidence  of  any  contract  on  their  part  to  that  eifect. 
Hermippus  might  have  learned  of  them  the  cheapest 
method  of  prolonging  life.  Jones,  who  mimics  the 
crowing  of  a  cock  so  well,  suspected  a  trick.  From  a 
certain  tenuity  in  their  discourse,  he  surmised  that  they 
were  not  really  living  characters,  but  only  the  ghosts 
of  such  ;  and  accordingly,  on  an  evening  when  he  knew 
that  one  of  them  was  to  appear,  stationed  himself  in 
the  gallery,  where  zoological  imitations  and  improvisa- 
tions are  allowed,  to  try  the  effect  of  the  ancient  spe- 
cific for  putting  such  vermin  to  flight.  As  soon  as  the 
thing  appeared  upon  the  stage,  our  friend  crowed,  as 
he  avers,  with  even  more  than  his  usual  precision  ;  but 
it  remained  entirely  unmoved,  and  was  soon  after  run 
through  the  heart, — to  arise  again,  doubtless,  at  the 
nex^  blast  of  the  scene-shifter's  whistle.  Jones  con- 
siders this  as  conclusive  for  the  bodily-existence  theoiy ; 
but  without  any  impugnment  of  his  extraordinary 
powers  of  imitation,  it  may  be  conjectured  that  the 
phenomenon  (if  a  ghost)  understood  the  hoax  and 
despised  it.  I  think  a  real  chanticleer  should  be  tried, 
as  that  would  leave  no  reasonable  doubt. 

JOHX. 

You   have  had  a  long  chase  after  your  butterfly. 
Have  you  nothing  more  to  read  me  from  Chapman? 

PHILIP. 

I  will  only  take  leave  of   him    in  his  own  noble 
words : 

13 


194  THIRD  CONVERSATION. 

"  Farewell,  brave  relics  of  a  complete  man ! 
Look  up  and  see  thy  spirit  made  a  star, 

.     .     .     gnd,  when  thou  sett'st 
Thy  radiant  forehead  in  the  firmament. 
Make  the  vast  crystal  crack  witli  thy  receipt ; 
Spread  to  a  world  of  fire,  and  the  aged  sky 
Cheer  with  new  sparks  of  old  Humanity  I" 


\ 

FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS. 

JOHN. 

I  HAVE  always  thought  that  our  own  history  sup- 
plied many  fine  plots  for  tragedy.  Hawthorne  and 
Wliittier  have  both  drawn  upon  the  persecutions  of  the 
early  Quakers  in  New  England  for  subjects.  The 
Salem  witch-mania  would  afford  many  striking  situ- 
ations. Our  good  Pilgrim  ancestors  thought  that 
religion  could  not  see  to  pick  her  steps  without  light 
now  and  then  from  a  bonfire  of  heretics.  Perhaps 
our  dramatists  may  find  their  account  in  it.  King 
Philip,  and  Tecumseh,  and  Osceola  would  make  good 
heroes ;  so  would  the  martyr  Lovejoy.  The  institu- 
tion of  slavery,  too,  horrible  as  it  is,  might  give  us 
some  materials.  But  I  suppose  our  refined  democracy 
would  not  allow  another  Othello  upon  the  stage.  The 
rudeness  of  the  age  in  which  Shakespeare  lived  will 
excuse  his  want  of  delicacy ;  but  in  an  American,  and 
in  the  nineteenth  century,  it  would  be  atrocious  not  to 
believe  in  the  cutaneous  aristocracy  of  the  feelings. 

PHILIP. 

No  doubt,  our  poets  may  find  proper  subjects, 
without  going  out   of  their  own   geographical   terri- 

195 


196  FOURTH  CONVERSATIOX. 

tories;  but  I  would  not  imprison  tliem  within  those. 
What  has  poetry  to  do  with  space  and  time?  Past 
and  future  are  to  her  but  arcs  of  one  horizon,  whose 
centre  is  the  living  heart.  Yet  how  much  cant  do  we 
hear  about  a  national  literature  !  Let  a  man  make  a 
Pequod  or  a  Cherokee  bemoan  himself  through  some 
dozen  or  more  stanzas  in  such  a  style  as  neither  of 
them  ever  dreamed  of;  let  him  invent  a  new  rhyme 
for  Huron,  or  a  new  epithet  for  Niagara,  and  he  has 
done  something  national.  "What  have  we  to  do  with 
a  dance  of  savages  more  than  with  one  of  dervishes,  or 
that  of  the  planets  which  Pythagoras  fancied?  Our 
notion  of  an  Indian  is  about  as  true  as  that  which 
the  Europeans  have  of  us.  In  all  the  situations 
which  are  proper  to  poetry  one  man  will  feel  precisely 
like  another;  and  to  the  poet  it  is  quite  indiiferent 
whether  his  scene  be  in  Congo  or  Massachusetts, 
unless,  indeed,  he  be  not  strong  enough  to  walk  firmly 
without  the  external  support  of  old  associations  or 
magnificent  ones.  Au  Indian,  whose  child  dies, 
mourns  the  loss  of  one  who  would  have  been  a  great 
brave  and  an  expert  hunter;  a  tradesman  in  the  same 
case  laments  that  of  a  lineal  successor  behind  the 
counter.  Where  is  the  difference  in  the  feeling?  Yet, 
in  writing  about  the  first,  one  would  be  bolstered  lip 
with  rocks,  woods,  rivers,  lakes,  wigwams,  scalping- 
parties,  and  the  whole  machinery  of  savage  life, — 
things  merely  extraneous  and  cumbrous,  and  not  at  all 
belonging  to  the  bare  feeling  one  is  trying  to  repro- 
duce. It  is  merely  because  of  our  arbitrary  and  un- 
natural associations  with  different  callings  or  modes  of 
life, — associations  unworthy  of  men,  much  more,  then, 


\ 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  197 

unworthy  of  poets, — that  avg  esteem  the  savngo  more 
picturesque  (or  whatever  you  choose  to  call  it)  than 
the  tradesman.  In  all  the  feelings  with  which  Poesy 
concerns  herself,  the  latter  may  be,  and  ought  to  be, 
superior.  The  savage  has  had,  it  is  true,  the  limbs  of 
the  oak-tree  for  his  cradle ;  the  primeval  forest  and 
the  lonely  prairie  have  been  his  playmates  and  nurses; 
the  sky,  the  waterfall,  the  thunder,  the  stars,  the 
legends  of  his  forefathers,  these  have  been  his  letters 
and  his  poetry.  But  the  other,  if  he  has  not  been 
dandled  by  the  forest  Titan,  has  had  the  nobler 
tutelage  of  a  mother's  arms ;  nature  denies  herself  to 
him  no  more  than  to  his  savage  brother ;  the  stars, 
and  the  forest,  and  the  waterfall  have  their  secrets  for 
him  as  well ;  and  in  books  he  can  converse  with  yet 
higher  company,  the  ever-living  spirits  of  the  brave 
and  wise.  Methinks  the  account  between  the  two  is 
well  balanced,  or,  if  not,  that  the  debit  is  on  the  side 
of  him  whom  we  idly  call  the  child  of  nature,  as  if 
we  dwellers  in  cities  were  but  her  foster-sons. — A  man 
is  neither  moi'e  nor  less  a  poet  because  he  chooses  one 
subject  or  another.  Did  not  the  cast-away  shell  of  a 
tortoise  become  Apollo's  lute? 

.JOHX. 

Yes,  but  it  was  the  shell  of  a  large  one;  a  mud- 
turtle's  Avould  not  have  served  his  turn  as  well.  Time 
and  place  are  of  no  consequence  to  a  poet ;  but  his  eye 
should  be  as  poetical  in  choosing  a  subject,  as  after- 
wards in  detecting  its  nice  relations  and  its  happy 
aspects.  He  shoilld  avoid  awakening  a  predisposed 
sense  of  the  ludicrous  in  his  readers.     No  man  admires 


198  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

"  The  Excursion  "  more  than  I ;  to  none  has  it  givfen 
a  truer  comfort ;  yet  I  never  think  of  its  hero  as  a 
pedler.  Costume  is  not  to  be  despised.  Heroines, 
you  know,  according  to  Mr.  PufF,  cannot  go  safely 
mad  but  in  white  satin. 

PHILIP. 

We  should  only  think  of  the  pedler  as  a  man,  with- 
out regard  to  the  petty  accidents  of  outward  circum- 
stance. The  heart  is  the  same  in  all ;  else  were  the 
poet's  power  of  enchantment  gone  for  ever.  The  soul 
is  indifferent  what  garment  she  wears,  or  of  what  color 
and  texture ;  the  true  king  is  not  unkinged  by  being 
discrowned. 

JOHN. 

Rather  made  more  truly  so.  But  Wordsworth's 
pedler,  with  the  soul  he  had,  would  have  been  Words- 
worth, and  an  act  of  parliament  could  not  have  made 
a  pedler  of  him.  As  the  pedler-element  is  not  pre- 
dominant in  him,  there  was  no  necessity  for  making 
liim  one ;  for  it  is  exactly  in  proportion  as  any  element 
of  character  is  predominant  that  it  is  poetical.  Shakes- 
peare's Autolycus  is  a  true  pedler;  yet  his  character 
is  as  ideal  as  that  of  Hamlet,  only  not  in  the  same 
kind.  The  manufacturer's  heart  becomes  poetical, 
when  he  looks  upon  Niagara  as  a  mill-privilege.  The 
whole  drama  of  the  factory,  with  the  strange  hum  of 
its  inanimate  engines  and  the  stranger  silence  of  its 
living  ones,  the  unresting  toil  of  its  Titan  wheels,  that 
turn  with  gigantic  sluggishness  to  their  task  in  the 
gloomy  prisons  below,  is  acted  over  in  his  mind.  The 
mauufacturinc;  nature  in  liim   is  what  makes  him  a 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  199 

poet,  and  it  is  in  this  light  that  he  presents  a  poetic 
pliase.  AV'oi'dsworth's  syllogism  is  logically  defective. 
It  does  not  follow,  because  the  poetical  faculty  or  sense 
is  independent  of  circumstances,  that  a  pcdlcr  must  be 
a  poet.  It  would  be  as  reasonable  to  say  that  a  poet 
must  be  a  pcdler.  True,  a  pedler  must  be  a  poet  to  a 
certain  degree;  every  man  must;  but  it  is  only  to  the 
degree  of  having  the  poetic  sense.  When  he  possesses 
the  faculty^  he  will  be  pedler  no  longer. 

PHILIP. 

Perhaps  you  are  right  in  an  artistic  point  of  view ; 
but  I  will  not  quarrel  with  my  ambrosia  because  it 
comes  to  me  in  an  earthen  vessel ;  its  fragrance  and 
its  gift  of  immortalizing  are  the  same  as  if  it  were 
sent  in  Jove's  own  beaker.  It  is  possible  that  Words- 
worth might  have  illustrated  his  noble  theory  more 
logically,  if  he  had  made  his  hero  rise  out  of  his  low 
estate  to  the  higher  one  of  a  poet;  if,  as  Willis  has 
exquisitely  expressed  it  in  one  of  his  dramas,  (perhaps 
the  best  in  their  kind  since  Fletcher,)  he  had  made 
him 

"  By  force,  of  heart, 
And  eagerness  for  light,  grow  tall  and  fair." 

But  why  need  we  consider  the  pedler  in  "  The  Ex- 
cursion "  as  anything  more  than  the  mouthpiece  of 
Wordsworth  himself?  He  might,  as  you  admit,  have 
possessed  the  poetic  sense  as  well,  being  a  pedler,  as  in 
any  other  condition  of  life ;  and  Wordsworth  has  only 
put  himself  in  his  place,  and  endowed  his  dumb 
images  with  his  own  poetic  faculty  of  speech.  The 
mind  that  flies  high  enough  cannot  see  the  pigmy  dis- 


200  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

tinctions  which  we  make  between  different  professions ; 
from  a  true  elevation  all  look  of  equal  height.  Milton 
was  a  schoolmaster,  and  might  have  been  a  cobbler, 
like  Jacob  Behmen,  without  derogation  to  his  dignity. 

JOHN. 

Not  till  he  had  ceased  to  be  Milton.  Behmen 
mended  shoes,  and  Bunyan  soldered  pans,  only  so  long 
as  they  were  not  yet  waited  upon  by  troops  of  winged 
visions.  If  Milton  had  stitched  and  patched  as  Avell 
as  he  built  immortal  rhyme,  he  would  have  deserved 
equal  honor  for  his  fidelity  in  that  humbler  duty ;  but 
such  honor  had  been  husks  and  chaff  to  him,  if  he 
must  meanwhile  refuse  to  bear  the  heavenly  message 
which  had  been  intrusted  to  him.  The  lark  rises 
from  a  lowly  clod  of  earth,  but  he  bears  it  not  with 
him  to  the  eaves  of  heaven.  Whatever  a  man's  in- 
ward calling  is,  that  will  have  undivided  possession  of 
him,  or  no  share  at  all  in  him.  If  a  thought  or  -wish 
stray  from  its  entire  fealty  and  surrenderment  to  that 
divine  presence  in  him,  his  vision  of  it  becomes 
straightway  clouded;  its  oracles  become  indistinct  to 
his  ear;  and  his  utterance  of  them  unintelligible,  or 
but  faint  reminiscence,  instead  of  obedient  and  literal 
report.  A  virtue  goes  away  from  him,  whenever  any 
other  desire  touches  but  the  hem  of  his  mantle.  That 
alone  must  be  the  Egeria  of  the  restless  fountain  of 
his  heart,  to  which  he  turns,  in  solitude  and  silence, 
for  wisdom  and  for  consolement.  True  it  is  that  any 
worldly  avocation  that  may  further  him  in  the  service , 
of  this  miraculous  intelligence,  whicli  has  conde- 
scended  to   make   him  its   slave,   becomes   not  only 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  201 

tolerable,  but  holy.  If  Milton  must  get  bread  to 
keep  the  spirit  in  him  till  it  have  uttered  itself,  would 
not  every  poor  crust,  though  earned  by  the  meanest 
employment,  have  a  flavor  and  fragrance  of  Eden 
in  it? 

"His  humblest  duties  that  hath  clad  with  wings." 

If  this  Wordsworthian  pedler  had  been  the  man 
his  speech  betrays  him  for.  Me  should  not  have  first 
heard  of  him  from  under  the  laurels  of  Royal  Mount. 
After  once  becoming  'aware  of  those  strong  wings  of 
his,  after  once  balancing  himself  upon  them  in  the 
illimitable  air  of  song,  he  would  never  have  borne  pack 
and  measured  tape  again.  As  soon  might  you  entice 
the  butterfly  back  into  his  old  hovel  in  the  dingy 
grub,  after  he  had  tasted  all  those  nectarous  delights 
which  Spenser  so  lusciously  describes  in  his  "  Muiopot- 
mos."  If  he  had  looked  on  nature  with  a  pedler's 
eye,  the  character  would  have  been  well  enough  ;  but 
he  was  all  poet. — We  have  talked  about  this  longer 
than  was  necessary.  Vsq  do  not  agree,  nor  should  we 
be  pleasant  companions  if  we  did.  This  would  be  a 
dull  world  indeed,  if  all  our  opinions  must  bevel  to 
one  standard ;  when  all  our  hearts  do,  we  shall  see 
blue  sky,  and  not  sooner. 

PHILIP. 

A  part,  certainly,  of  what  you  have  said  jumps 
with  my  opinions  precisely.  It  is  true  that  every  man 
has  his  infallible  and  inexorable  monitor  within, — a 
conscience  that  forewarns,  as  well  as  one  that  reproves ; 
and  it  were  hard  to  tell  which  wields  the  sharper  lash. 


202  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

Nature  throws  the  tools  of  whatever  art  she  destines 
a  select  soul  for  invitingly  in  his  way.  The  burnt 
stick  from  the  hearth  must  be  the  pencil,  and  the  wall 
the  canvas,  for  the  future  painter.  There  must  be  a 
linkboy  wanted  at  "  the  Globe,"  when  the  young 
Shakespeare  runs  away  to  London.  Somehow  or 
other,  there  chances  to  be  a  clay-pit  or  a  pottery  near 
the  birthplace  of  the  young  sculptor ;  and  wherever  a 
poet  or  a  musician  is  born,  there  will  be  an  odd 
volume  of  Spenser,  or  a  cracked  spinnet,  in  the  house. 
There  is  something  more  than  a  mere  predisposition 
in  the  soul  of  a  great  genius,  (if,  without  offence,  we 
may  guess  at  these  cryptic  mysteries,)  which  compels 
him  into  the  path  lie  must  tread.  If  he  deny  and 
frustrate  it,  the  whole  face  of  nature  looks  at  him  sor- 
rowfully and  with  a  tender  yet  half-contemptuous 
reproach.  He  cannot  cast  away  from  him  this  badge 
of  the  friendship  of  the  supernal  powers ;  if  he  try,  it 
is  brought  back  to  him  next  day,  like  the  ring  of 
Polycrates.  "  Here  stand  I :  I  cannot  help  it"  says 
stout  Martin  Luther,  almost  regretfully,  exiled  from 
his  quiet  convent-cell  by  this  superior  wall.  Is  not 
this  the  meaning  of  having  a  genius, — an  expression 
of  a  truth  which  has  had  all  its  sharp  edges  worn  off 
and  has  become  a  mere  phrase,  in  coming  down  to  us 
from  the  simpler  and  more  inseeing  day  wdien  it  was 
invented  ? — The  supernatural  calling  carries  a  pain 
with  it,  too.  The  ancients  were  wont  to  say  that  he 
who  saw  a  god  must  die.  Perhaps  this  only  meant 
that  he  who  has  gazed  deepest  into  the  vast  mysteries 
of  being,  and  held  closest  converse  with  the  Eternal 
Love,  is  overpowered  by  the  yearning  and  necessity  to 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  203 

speak  that  which  can  never  be  wholly  spoken,  and 
wliich  yet  seems  ever  hovering  in  fiery  words  upon  the 
tongue.  The  music  of  the  mighty  universe  crowds 
through  the  slender  reed,  and  shatters  it  with  the  very 
excess  of  quivering  melody. 

JOHN. 

Certain  it  is,  that  without  this  law  of  genius,  which 
compels  it  to  utter  itself  as  it  best  may,  very  few  great 
words  have  been  spoken  or  great  deeds  done.  Every 
great  man  is  more  or  less  tinged  with  what  the  world 
calls  fanaticism.  Fanaticism,  in  its  ill  sense,  is  that 
which  makes  a  man  blind  to  perceive  the  falseness  of 
an  error ;  the  fanaticism  of  genius  will  not  let  him  be 
persuaded  that  there  is  any  lie  in  truth.  The  disbe- 
lief of  the  whole  world  cannot  shake  his  faith  that  he 
is  God's  messenger,  which  upbears  him  as  upon  the 
Rock  of  Ages.  He  knows  that  the  whole  power  of 
God  is  behind  him,  as  the  drop  of  water  in  the  little 
creek  feels  that  it  is  moved  onward  by  the  whole 
weight  of  the  rising  ocean.  Unsupported  by  any  of 
earth's  customs  or  conventions,  he  learns  to  lean  wholly 
on  the  Infinite.  The  seal  of  God's  commission  is  set 
within,  and  has  no  ribbons  about  it  to  make  it  respect- 
able in  the  eyes  of  the  many.  Most  men  are  fearful 
of  visitings  from  the  other  world,  and,  set  on  by  those 
whose  interest  lies  mainly  in  this,  they  look  with  dis- 
trust, and  often  with  ignorant  hate,  on  him  who  con- 
verses with  spirits. 

PHILIP. 

Yes,  men  always   deny  the  messenger  of  God  at 


204  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

first.  The  spiritual  eye,  like  that  of  the  body,  until 
taught  by  experience,  sees  objects  reversed,  and  makes 
that  seemingly  come  from  hell,  which  has  in  truth  but 
just  descended,  warm  and  fragrant,  from  the  heart  of 
God.  But  Time  can  never  put  Eternity  off  more  than 
a  day ;  swift  and  strong  comes  the  fair  to-morrow,  and 
with  it  that  clearer  perception  of  the  beautiful,  which 
sets  another  fixed  star  in  the  bright  coronet  of  Truth. 

JOHN. 

But  when  the  world  is  at  last  forced  to  believe  the 
message,  it  despitefully  entreats  the  bearer  of  it.  In 
most  cases  men  do  not  recognize  him,  till  the  disguise 
of  flesh  has  fallen  off,  and  the  white  wings  of  the  angel 
are  seen  glancing  in  the  full  sunshine  of  that  peace, 
back  into  whose  welcoming  bosom  their  flight  is  turned. 
If  they  recognize  him  earlier,  it  is  with  a  scurvy  grace. 
Knowing  that  hunger  is  the  best  taskmaster  for  the 
body,  and  always  using  to  measure  spirit  by  the  laws 
of  matter,  they  conclude  that  it  must  be  the  sharpest 
spur  for  the  soul  also.  They  hold  up  a  morsel  of 
bread,  as  boys  do  to  their  dogs,  and  tell  the  prophet  to 
speak  for  it.  They  know  that  he  has  a  secret  to  tell 
them,  and  think  they  can  starve  it  out  of  him,  as  if  .it 
were  an  evil  demon. 

PHILIP. 
It  is  true  enough  that  hunger  is  the  best  urger  of 
the  soul ;  but  it  is  the  hunger,  not  of  the  body,  but  of 
the  soul, — which  is  love.  A  state  of  rest  and  quietude 
in  the  body  is  the  most  conformable  to  the  happiness 
and  serenity,  and  so  to  the  undisturbed  utterance,  of 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  205 

the  soul.  Love,  which  is  its  appetite,  quickcus  tlie 
soul  of  tlie  seer, 

"  And  then,  even  of  itself,  it  high  doth  climb  ; 
What  erst  was  dark  becomes  all  eye,  all  sight," 

as  Dr.  Henry  More  i)hrases  it.  The  distracting  cares 
and  dunnings  of  want  are  not  the  best  nurses  of  genius; 
it  has  self-dependence  enough  without  their  prompting. 
It  may  take  other  sorrows  and  thank  God  for  them, 
for  sorrow  alone  can  unlock  the  dwelling  of  the  deeper 
heavenly  instincts;  but  there  is  bitter  enough  in  its 
cup,  always,  without  the  world's  squeezing  its  spare 
drops  of  rue  in. 

JOHN. 

Perhaps  actual  want  may  be  inconsistent  with  that 
serenity  of  mind  which  is  needful  to  the  highest  and 
noblest  exercise  of  the  creative  power  ;  but  I  am  not 
ready  to  allow  that  poverty  is  so.  Few  can  dignify  it 
like  our  so  admirable  prose-poet,  whose  tales  are  an 
honor  even  to  the  illustrious  language  they  are  written 
in ;  few  can  draw  such  rich  revenues  of  wise  humble- 
ness from  it  as  our  beloved  R.  C. ;  few  can  win  a  smile 
from  it  by  his  Lambish  humor,  and  that  generous 
courtesy  which  transmutes  his  four-pence  into  a  bank- 
note in  the  beggar's  eyes,  like  S. ;  but  there  is  none  for 
whom  it  has  not  some  kind  lesson.  Poverty  is  a  rare 
mistress  for  the  poet.  She  alone  can  teach  him  what 
a  cheap  thing  delight  is;  to  be  had  of  every  man, 
woman,  and  child  he  meets ;  to  be  gathered  from  every 
tree,  shrub,  and  flower ;  nay,  to  be  bought  of  the  surly 
northwestern   wind  himself,  by  the  easily-paid  instal- 


206  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

ments  of  a  cheerful,  unhaggling  spirit.  Who  knows 
the  true  taste  of  buus,  but  the  boy  who  receives  the 
annual  godsend  of  one  with  Election-day?  Who  ever 
really  went  to  the  theatre,  but  Kit  Nubbles?  Who 
feels  what  a  fireside  is,  but  the  little  desolate  bare- 
footed Euths,  who  glean  the  broken  laths  and  waste 
splinters  after  the  carpenters  have  had  a  full  harvest  ? 
Who  believes  that  his  cup  is  overflowing,  but  he  who 
has  rarely  seen  anything  but  the  dry  bottom  of  it  ? 
Poverty  is  the  only  seasoner  of  felicity.  Except  she 
be  the  cook,  the  bread  is  sour  and  heavy,  and  the  joint 
tough  or  overdone.  As  brisk  exercise  is  the  cheapest 
and  warmest  overcoat  for  the  body,  so  is  poverty  for 
the  heart.  But  it  must  be  independent,  and  not  of 
Panurge's  mind, — that  to  owe  is  a  heroic  virtue. 
Debt  is  like  an  ingenious  mechanical  executioner  I 
have  read  of  somewhere,  which  presented  the  image  of 
a  fair  woman  standing  upon  a  pedestal  of  three  steps. 
When  the  victim  mounted  the  first,  she  opened  her 
arms ;  at  the  second,  she  began  to  close  them  slowly 
around  him ;  and  at  the  third,  she  locked  him  in  her 
iron  embrace  for  ever. 

On  the  other  hand,  however,  poverty  has  its  bad 
side.  Poverty  in  one  hour's  time  shall  transport  a 
man  from  the  warm  and  fruitful  climate  of  sworn 
brotherhood  with  the  world  into  the  bare,  bleak,  desert, 
and  polar  ice-field  of  distant  country-cousinship  ;  and 
the  world's  whole  duty  of  man  towards  him  becomes 
on  a  sudden  the  necessity  of  staving  off  asking  him  to 
dinner.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  gets  an  insight 
into  the  efficacy  of  buttons,  and  discovers,  to  his  great 
surprise,    that    the   world   has    one    at  each    pocket. 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  207 

This  gives  liini  au  excellent  hint  for  a  sonnet  to  a  bnt- 
ton,  comparing-  it  to  the  dragon  of  the  Hesperides,  in 
wliich  he  gets  no  farther  than  tlie  cud  of  the  second 
quatrain,  finding  it  impossible  (o  think  of  any  body  or 
anything  analogous  to  Hercules  in  his  victory  over  the 
monster.  Besides,  he  now  learns  that  there  are  no 
golden  apples  to  be  guarded,  the  world  assuring  him 
on  its  honor  that  it  has  enormous  sums  to  ])ay  and  not 
a  cent  to  meet  them  with.  lu  a  fit  of  inspired  despair 
he  writes  an  elegy,  for  the  first  two  stanzas  of  which 
(having  learned  economy)  he  uses  up  the  two  quatrains 
already  adjusted  for  his  sonnet.  By  employing  the 
extremely  simple  process  of  deduction  invented  by  the 
modern  expounders  of  old  myths,  he  finds  that  Her- 
cules and  O'jTc^  are  identical,  and  that  the  same  word 
in  the  Syro-Phoenician  language  imports  a  dragon  and 
a  button.  The  rest  of  the  elegy  is  made  easy  by  merely 
assuming  the  other  steps  of  the  proposition,  as  every 
expounder  of  old  myths  has  a  clear  right  to  do,  by  a 
rule  of  logic  founded  on  the  usage  of  the  best  writers 
in  that  department.  He  therefore  considers  the  heart 
in  the  poetical  light  of  a  pocket  or  garden  of  Hesper- 
ides, buttoned'up  tight  against  all  intruders.  As  Scrip- 
ture is  always  popular,  he  ends  by  comparing  it  also 
to  that  box  Avhich  Jehoiada  set  at  the  gate  of  the 
Temple,  which  had  a  hole  in  the  top  ample  enough  to 
admit  the  largest  coins,  though  you  might  shake  till 
you  were  tired  without  getting  the  smallest  one  out  of 
it.  Having  now  commenced  author,  we  may  as  w'ell 
leave  him  ;  for,  at  that  lowest  ebb  of  fortune,  the  bare, 
muddy  fiats  of  poverty  lie  exposed,  and  the  tide  must 
soon  turn  again. 


208  FOVRTH  CONVERSATIOX. 


PHILIP. 


That  poverty  may  be  of  use  to  the  poet,  as  you 
have  said,  may  be  granted,  without  allowing  that  it 
must  come  to  the  actual  pinch  and  gripe  of  want  with 
him.  The  man  of  genius  surely  needs  it  not  as  a 
spur,  for  his  calling  haunts  him  from  childhood  up. 
He  knows  that  he  has  that  to  say  that  will  make  the 
great  heart  of  the  universe  beat  with  a  more  joyous 
peacefulness  and  an  evener  motion.  As  he  grows  to 
man's  estate,  the  sense  of  a  duty  imposed  on  him  by 
nature,  and  of  a  necessary  obedience  to  heavenly  mes- 
sengers, which  the  world  neither  sees  nor  acknow- 
ledges, grows  stronger  and  stronger.  Tlie  exceeding 
brio-htness  of  his  countenance  weaves  a  crown  around 
his  head  out  of  the  thick  air  of  earth;  but  earthlings 
cannot  see  it.  He  tells  his  errand,  and  the  world 
turns  its  hard  ftice  upon  him  and  says,  "  Thou  art  a 
drone  in  my  busy  hive;  why  doest  thou  not  some- 
thing?" Alas!  when  the  winter  season  comes,  the 
world  will  find  that  he  had  been  storing  honey  for  it 
from  heavenly  flowers,  for  the  famishing  heart  to  feed 
upon.  He  must  elbow  through  the  dust  and  throng 
of  the  market,  when  he  should  be  listening  to  the  still, 
small  voice  of  God ;  he  must  blaspheme  his  high 
nature,  and  harden  his  heart  to  a  touchstone  to  ring- 
gold  upon,  when  it  is  bursting  M'ith  the  unutterable 
agony  of  a  heavenly  errand  neglected, — that  bittei'est 
feeling  of  having  "  once  had  wings."  Tlie  world  has 
at  last  acknowledged  his  sovereignty,  and  crowned  him 
with  a  crown  of  thorns.  Thomson,  in  one  of  his 
letters,  says : 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  209 

"The  great  fat  doctor  of  Bath  told  me  that  poets  should  be  kept 
poor,  tlie  more  to  animate  their  genius.  This  is  like  the  cruel 
custom  of  patting  a  bird's  eyes  out,  that  it  may  sing  the  sweeter." 

The  world  plays  the  great  fat  doctor  very  well. 
Milton  tells  us  that 

"Fame  is  the  spur  whieh  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
To  scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days  ;" 

but  the  greater  part  of  mankind,  having  more  sym- 
pathy with  the  body  than  with  its  heavenly  tenant, 
seem  to  derive  the  word  fame  from  the  I^atin  fames. 
They  would  have  the  alleged  temperate  habits  of  the 
chameleon  held  up  to  poets,  as  that  of  the  busy  bee  is 
to  good  little  Jaekies  and  Tommies.  But  it  may  well 
be  doubted  whether  a  forced  Pythagoreanism  would 
lead  to  the  same  happy  results  as  a  willing  one.  The 
system  has,  moreover,  been  often  exaggerated  into  the 
lameutablest  fanaticism.  A  contempt  of  the  body  has 
been  gradually  engendered  in  the  soul,  whieh  has 
sometimes  overpersuaded  her  to  break  her  M-ay  out,  as 
in  Chatterton, — or  to  carry  her  zeal  to  the  extent  of 
not  eating  at  all,  and  so  forcing  the  spirit  by  slowly 
•wasting  away  the  flesh,  as  in  Otway  and  others.  This 
species  of  devotion,  moreover,  seems  to  meet  with  the 
hearty  approbation  of  the  reading  public,  who  usually 
commemorate  such  by  the  rather  incongruous  ceremony 
of  placing  a  huge  monument  to  mark  the  resting-place 
of  that  very  body  whose  entire  subjection  by  sudden 
conquest  or  gradual  overthrow  they  had  regarded  with 
so  much  satisfaction.  In  England,  men  of  this  pro- 
fession seem  to  be  erected  into  a  distinct  caste  or  sruild, 

14 


210  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

and  the  practice  of  its  mysteries  is  restrained  by 
statute  to  geniuses  and  operatives ;  for  an  unprincipled 
vagrant  named  Cavanagh  was  sentenced,  a  few  years 
ago,  to  tlie  treadmill,  for  pretending  to  live  without 
eating,  he  having  no  license  so  to  do. 

JOHN. 

Mr.  Putnam,  in  his  late  oration,  made  himself 
merry  over  the  complainings  of  genius  ]  and  the  com- 
fortable audience  laughed  pleasantly  as  he  told  genius 
to  take  its  lazy  hands  out  of  its  pockets  and  go  to 
work.  "  Do  the  duty  that  lies  nearest  thee,"  said  he, 
enlisting  Goethe's  brave  word  for  the  occasion,  but 
forcing  it  to  a  new  service.  Nothing  is  so  apt  to  lead 
men  astray  as  their  sense  of  the  ludicrous ;  no  kindly 
feeling  is  so  apt  to  make  them  say  harsh  things.  To 
judge  by  the  fine  face  of  the  orator,  none  would  have 
been  readier  than  he  to  have  dropped  a  quiet  drachma 
into  the  hat  of  the  blind  old  Maeonides,  or  to  have 
thought  a  song  of  his  too  ample  payment  for  a  week's 
lodging.  It  has  not  been  the  men  of  genius  who. 
have  whined  and  whimpered ;  it  has  been  those  'who 
have  mistaken  their  own  vague  longings  and  pitiful 
ambitions  for  the  summonses  of  the  true  voice,. 
Genius  locks  its  sorrows  in  its  own  invincible  heart; 
from  those  awful  deeps  a  moan  may  sometimes  wander, 
but  no  complaint ;  the  voice  may  become  sadder  and 
the  face  more  care-worn,  but  that  noble  pity  is  not  for 
jtself ; — it  is  because  of  the  adder-deafness  which  seals 
the  ears  of  the  world  against  the  entrance  of  the 
eternal  melodies  of  which  it  believes  itself  the  instru- 
ment ;  its  lips  are  ever 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  211 

"  As  Cumjie's  cavern  close, 
Its  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 
Its  rigid  front  almost  morose, 
But  for  the  patient  hope  within."  * 

PHILIP. 

Mr.  Putnam  forgot  that  the  duty  which  lies  nearest 
a  man  of  genius  is  to  be  a  man  of  genius ;  and  it  is  a 
duty  which  no  one  else  can  perform  for  him.  That  is 
the  first  duty ;  after  tliat  is  well  done,  he  may  think 
of  other  subordinate  ones.  God  did  not  lay  it  upon 
him  that  it  might  starve  or  isolate  him.  Wliatev^er 
idiosyncrasies  he  endows  his  creatures  w'ith,  he  intends 
them  as  the  tools  for  them  to  earn  their  bread.  The 
same  wings  on  which  the  bobolink  hangs  vibrating, 
rapturous  with  song,  bear  it  also  in  search  of  the  grub 
and  the  rice-field  ;  the  same  structure  Avhicli  gives  tlie 
swan  his  frigate-like  majesty  upon  the  water  enables  it 
also  to  pursue  and  secure  its  food.  The  world  owes 
all  created  beings  a  living,  not  in  return  for  any  per- 
formance it  has  laid  upon  them,  but  for  doing  what 
they  are  intended  and  foreordained  to  do.  The  man  of 
genius  has  an  injunction  laid  upon  him  to  fulfil  a  cer- 
tain destiny ;  if  he  neglect  it,  bread  will  not  quench 
his  hunger  nor  water  his  thirst;  he  is  wholly  cut  off 
from  the  great  catholic  communion  of  nature ;  if  he 
obey  it,  there  seems  to  be  no  such  thing  as  starving 

*From  a  fine  poem  "On  the  Bust  of  Dante,"  (its  metre  as 
severe,  and  its  images  as  stern  and  siiarp-cnt,  as  the  lines  in  the 
bust  it  commemorates,)  prefixed  by  T.  W.  Parsons,  one  of  our 
most  truly  classic  and  delightful  poets,  to  his  translation  of  the 
first  ten  cantos  of  the  "  Inferno."  It  is  to  be  hoped,  for  the  honor 
of  our  literature,  that  the  translator  may  be  encouraged  to  proceed 
in  his  excellent  undertaking." 


212  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

him  till  it  be  accomplished.     The  poet  will  and  must 

sing,  in  spite  of  want  or  any  other  misery ;  but  we 

know  not  how  much  sweeter  and  clearer  liis  voice 

would  have  been  but  for  these.     The  infinite  beauty 

and  harmony  Avhich  he  sees  and  heai-s  force  him  to 

give  vent    to  the  glorious  agony    which    swells  his 

breast  : 

"The  sweetness  liatli  his  heart  ynierced  so, 
He  cannot  stint  of  singing  by  tlie  way." 

He  has  no  choice  in  the  matter;  the  crown  will  find 
out  David  while  he  tends  his  flocks;  the  javelin  hurled 
at  him  will  quiver  harmless  in  the  wall.  There  is 
such  a  thing  as  peculiarity  of  temperament,  and  you 
shall  not  find  one  of  the  thousand  crafts  in  which  men 
are  employed  but  has  one  of  its  own.  How  came 
Mr.  Putnaiu  to  be  delivering  that  very  oration  ? 

JOHN. 

I  will  propose  to  you  another  question  equally  easy 
of  solution.  How  comes  it  that  Italians  have  a 
patent-right  to  suffer  by  convulsions  of  nature?  Yet 
such  is  the  fact.  Let  there  be  an  eruption  of  Cotopaxi 
or  Hecla,  let  the  cartii  turn  in  its  sleep  and  shake 
itself  in  the  Society  Islands,  and  in  less  than  a  week 
an  Italian  shall  thrust  into  your  hand  a  certificate, 
properly  authenticated,  that  he  has  lost  his  all  by  one 
of  them.  How  does  it  chance,  also,  that  these  true 
pensioners  of  nature  (for  they  undoubtedly  get  a 
living  that  way,  benevolence  serving  as  a  kind  of  in- 
surance-policy) have  always  large  families  of  children  ? 
You  speak  of  nature's  j)rovidence  in  her  endowment 


THE  OLD  DRAMATISTS.  213 

of  the  bobolink  and  llic  swan  ;  bnt  what  is  it  In  com- 
parison with  the  forcthouglit  she  oni[)Ioys  to  the  iiir- 
iiishnient  of  these?  An  ernption  is  a  year's  snp|)()rt  to 
them;  an  carlhqnakc  more  destructive  than  common 
is  a  life-annuity.  Whenever  she  is  about  to  toucii  a 
match  to  one  of  her  underground  magazines,  she  sets 
them  down  just  over  it ;  she  saves  them  from  the 
destructive  wrath  of  the  explosion,  and  then  supplies 
them  with  some  means  of  locomotion  to  the  abodes  of 
the  charitable  which  transcends  any  swiftness  of  man's 
device.  Before  the  news  of  the  catastrophe,  they  are 
at  our  doors.  This  peculiar  gift  of  that  nation  may 
pcrhai)s  be  yet  turned  to  account  in  the  forwarding  of 
despatciies.  It  is  worth  considering,  at  least. — Again, 
how  comes  it  to  pass  that  none  but  destitute  Irislimen 
arc  ever  desirous  of  obtaining  the  means  of  reacliinsr 
equally  destitute  wives  and  children  at  Halifax,  and 
that  they  are  sometitnes  years  in  performing  that  deso- 
late and  pious  pilgrimage,  being  inexplicably  detained 
for  months  in  any  village  where  there  are  believing 
ears  and  generous  hearts?  Some  philosophers  will 
have  it  that  the  tools  of  every  animal  and  vegetable 
are  the  forced  productions  of  self-preserving  instinct ; 
— that  the  grapevine  was  set  to  climb  the  tree  till  its 
despair  had  escaped  in  prehensile  tendrils;  that  the 
duck  was  tossed  Into  the  sea  to  drown,  till  its  fears  had 
found  a  vent  and  a  remedy  in  webbing  its  feet.  Was 
it  some  such  instinct  which  j)rovIded  the  emigrant 
Switzcr  Avith  that  natural  cxcrcsencc  of  his  tyran- 
nous, indefatigable,  tax-gathering  barrel-organ?' 


214  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

PHILIP. 

I  see  that  you  are  weary  of  our  discussion.  Let  me 
put  in  two  more  pieces  of  evidence  before  the  case 
goes  to  the  jury.  They  are  the  depositions  of  Ed- 
mund Spenser  and  James  Thomson.  The  first  testifies 
to  this  effect : 

"  O,  what  avails  it  of  immortal  seed 
To  bin  ybred,  and'  never  born  to  die  ? 
Far  better  I  it  deem  to  die  with  speed, 
Than  waste  in  woe  and  wailful  misery  ! " 

He  gives  the  same  testimony  more  at  full  in  his 
"Mother  Hubbard's  Tale."  Nor  is  the  other  less 
explicit : 

"  To  every  labor  its  award  accrues, 
And  they  are  sure  of  bread  who  swink  and  moil ; 


But  while  the  laws  not  guard  that  noblest  toil, 

Ne  for  the  Muses  other  meed  decree, 

They  praised  are  alone,  and  starve  right  merrily." 

JOHN. 

Now  let  us  open  Ford's  Plays,  which,  I  see,  is  the 
volume  in  your  hand.  m 

PHILIP. 

/  Ford's  dramatic  abilities  have,  I  think,  been  rated 
too  highly.  He  has  a  great  deal  of  tragic  excitability 
and  enthusiasm,  and  a  good  knowledge  of  stage-effect ; 
but  these  are  the  predominant  qualities  of  his  nature. 
In  the  strong  mind  they  are  always  subservient.  Ford 
can  see  the  proprieties  and  beauties  of  a  fine  situation ; 


FORD.  215 

but  he  has  not  that  dignity  in  him  which  can  create 
them  out  of  its  own  substance.  His  poetic  faculty- 
leans  upon  the  tragic  element  in  his  stories  for  support, 
instead  of  being  the  foundation  of  it.  Tender  and 
graceful  he  always  is,  almost  to  excess;  never  great 
and  daring.  He  does  not  seem  to  me  to  deserve  the 
higli  praise  which,  if  I  remember  rightly.  Lamb  be- 
stows uj)on  him,  and  which  other  less  judicious  critics 
have  repeated.  -^ 

JOHX. 

The  sweet  lovingness  of  Lamb's  nature  fitted  him 
for  a  good  critic;  but  there  were  knotty  quirks  in  the 
grain  of  his  mind,  which  seemed,  indeed,  when 
polished  by  refined  studies,  little  less  than  beauties, 
and  which  we  cannot  help  loving,  but  which  led  him 
to  the  worship  of  strange  gods,  and  with  the  more 
scrupulous  punctuality  that  the  mass  were  of  another 
persuasion.  No  field  is  so  small  or  so  barren  but  there 
will  be  grazing  enough  in  it  to  keep  a  hobby  in  ex- 
cellent case.  Lamb's  love  was  of  too  rambling  and 
wide-spreading  a  kind  to  be  limited  by  the  narrow 
trellises  whicli  satisfy  a  common  nature.  It  stretched 
out  its  feelers  and  twined  them  around  everything 
M'ithin  its  reach,  clipping  with  its  tender  and  delicate 
green  the  fair  tree  and  unsightly  stump  alike.  Every- 
thing that  he  loved  was,  for  the  time,  his  ideal  of 
loveliness.  Even  tobacco,  when  he  was  taking  leave 
of  it,  became  the  very  "  crown  of  perfumes,"  and  he 
affirmed 

"  Roses  and  violets  but  toys 
For  the  greener  sort  of  boys 
Or  for  greener  damsels  meant." 


216  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

PHILIP. 

In  this,  and  in  the  finer  glimpses  of  his  humor,  and 
in  the  antique  richness  of  his  style  in  the  best  parts, 
he  reminds  me  of  Emerson ;  but  he  had  not  the  divine 
eye  of  our  American  poet,  nor  his  deep  transparency 
and  majestic  simpleness  of  language,  full  of  images  J 
that  seem  like  remembrance-flowers  dropped  from 
bet^A'een  the  pages  of  Bacon,  or  Montaigne,  or  Browne, 
or  Herbert ;  reminding  us  of  all  felicitous  seasons  in 
our  own  lives,  and  yet  infused  with  a  congenial  virtue 
from  the  magic  leaves  between  which  they  had  been 
stored. 

John  Ford,  though  he  cannot  rank  with  the  first 
order  of  minds,  yet  claims  an  instinctive  deference,  as 
one  of  that  glorious  brotherhood  who  so  illustrated 
and  dignified  our  English  tongue  at  the  beginning  of 
the  seventeenth  century.  vSet  beside  almost  any  of 
our  moderm  dramatists,  there  is  certainly  something 
grand  and  free  about  him ;  and  though  he  has  not 
that  "  large  utterance  "  which  belonged  to  Shakespeare, 
and  perhaps  one  or  two  others  of  his  contemporaries, 
he  sometimes  rises  into  a  fiery  earnestness  which  falls 
little  short  of  sublimity,  and  proves  that  he  had  in 
him,  as  Drayton  said  of  jNIarlowe, 

"Those  brave  translunarv  things 
That  our  first  poets  had." 

It  is  this  abandoned  earnestness  and  willingness 
and  simplicity  which  so  much  elevate  the  writers  of 
that  age  above  nearly  all  succeeding  ones.  In  their 
companionship,  a  certain  pardoning  and  compromising 


FORD.  217 

restraint,  which  hampers  iis  in  the  society  of  less 
unconscious  writers,  seems  to  be  tlu'own  off  tlie  mind. 
Here,  at  hist,  we  find  frankness,  contempt  of  conse- 
quences, dignity  that  finds  graceful  sustenance  in  the 
smallest  and  most  ordinary  events  of  to-day,  as  well 
as  in  the  greatest,  or  in  prophecies  of  a  nobler  to- 
morrow. They  laid  the  deep-set  bases  of  their  works 
and  thoughts  in  the  cheap  but  eternal  rock  of  nature, 
not  idly  writing  their  names  upon  the  shifting  and 
unstable  sands  of  a  taste  or  a  prejudice,  to  be  washed 
out  by  the  next  wave,  or  blurred  and  overdrifted  by 
the  first  stronger  breeze.  Pegasus  is  the  most  unsafe 
of  hobby-horses.  The  poet  whose  pen  is  governed 
by  any  self-built  theory  (even  if  he  persuade  men  to 
believe  in  it)  will  be  read  only  so  long  as  that  theory 
is  not  driven  out  by  another. 

JOHN. 

Yet  a  creed  or  theory  may  sometimes  be  of  good 
service  iu  the  cause  of  truth.  It  may  concentrate  the 
will  and  energy  of  a  strong  mind  upon  one  point,  and 
so  lead  to  the  discovery  of  such  facts  as  intersect  at 
that  point  in  their  revolutions ;  as  the  wells  of  the  old 
astronomers,  by  shutting  out  all  light  from  around, 
enabled  them  to  see  the  else  invisible  stars. 

PHILIP. 

But  the  credit  should  rather  be  given  to  the  concen- 
trated resolution  than  to  the  creed  or  theory.  Resolu- 
tion is  the  youngest  and  dearest  daughter  of  Destiny, 
and  may  win  from  her  fond  mother  almost  any  favor 
she  chooses  to  ask,  though  in  very  wantonness.     The 

'  UNIVEESITl 


218  FOURTH  coy  VERSA  TlOy. 

great  spirits  of  that  day  were  of  no  school,  except 
that  iu  which  their  own  soul  was  mistress.     The  door 
to  the  temple  of  any  creed  was  too  low  to  admit  men 
of  their  godlike   stature   without  stooping,   and  that 
they   could  not  do.     They   scorned   those   eifeminate 
conventionalities  Avliich,  half  a  century  later,  decked 
our    ruddy    English    Muse    in    the    last  Paris   mode, 
bound  up  and  powdered  her  free  golden  hair,  and  so 
])inched  her  robust  waist  that  she  has  scarce  borne  a 
healthy  child  since.     Poesy,  with  them,  was  not  an 
artifice  in  the  easy  reach  of  any  whose  ear  could  detect 
the  jingle  of   two    words,   and   who    had   arithmetic 
enough  to  count  as  high  as  ten  on  their  finger-ends. 
They  believed  that  Poesy  demanded  the  enthralling 
and   ennobling  toil  of  a   whole   life,   the  heart,  soul, 
will,  life,  everything,  of  those  who  professed  her  ser- 
vice.     Thev    esteemed   her   the    most    homelike    and 
gentle  of  spirits,  and  would  not  suffer  her  to  travel 
abroad  to  bring  home  licentiousne.-s   veiled   under  a 
greater  precision  of  manner,  at  the  expense  of  all 
freedom  and  grace.     The  innocent  artlessness  of  her 
face  looked  sweetest  to  them  in  the  warm  fire-light 
upon  the  hearth  at  home.     Tiiey  knew  that  all  the 
outward  forms  of  poetry  are  changeable  as  those  of  a 
cloud.     These  fall  away  like  the  petals  of  a  flower, 
but  they  leave  the  soul,  the  plain  sober  seed-vessel 
which  most  men  pass  by  unregarded.     Parnassus  is 
now  shrunk  to  a  modern  mountain;  .Hippocrene  has 
dwindled  to  a  scant  rill,  which  the  feet  of  a  single  ox 
can  make  muddy  through  its  whole  course ;  but  while 
the  heart  remains,  the  poet's  fountain  bubbles  up  as 
clear  and  fresh  as  ever. 


FORD.  219 


JOHN. 


Only  that  pcirt  of  a  form  Avhicli  is  foundctl  in  nature 
can  survive ;  the  worth  of  the  statue  of  Meninon  as  an 
oracle  died  with  the  wise  priest  who  spoke  through  it, 
but,  after  three  thousand  years,  it  still  recognizes  its 
ancient  god,  and  grows  musical  under  the  golden  fin- 
gers of  sunrise. — I  confess  I  can  hardly  shake  off  the 
influence  of  early  education  in  favor  of  the  French 
school  of  poets.  I  admire  the  others  M'itli  a  kind  of 
reverence,  as  grand,  natural,  un])runed  spirits ;  but  I 
find  my  entertainment,  too,  in  these,  as  in  the  society 
of  elegant  gentlemen  with  whom  artificiality  has  been 
carried  well-nigh  to  the  unconscious  ease  of  nature. 
Dryden  

PHILIP. 

But  I  will  not  grant  him  for  one  of  them.  He 
could  not  smother  his  sturdy  English  spirit.  His  Gal- 
licism is  ridiculous,  as  in  his  plays.  It  is  not  ingrained. 
I  will  give  you  an  example  of  what  English-French 
must  be,  by  quoting  a  specimen  of  French-English. 
Here  is  a  French  translation  of  Gray's  Odes,  published 
at  Paris,  in  the  sixth  year  of  the  Republic. 

JOHN. 

"Without  allowing  it  to  be  an  argument,  I  can  con- 
ceive that  it  must  be  a  great  curiosity.  Let  me  hear 
some  of  it. 

PHILIP. 

You  will  not  be  disappointed.  It  is  in  prose,  and 
the  translator  avows  that  his  sole  object  has  been  to  be 
literally   exact.     Fidelity   first,  then   elegance,  is   his 


220  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

motto ;  but  you  will  see  that  lie  has  not  forgotten  the 
lessons  of  the  posture-master.  He  tells  us  in  his  pref- 
ace that  he  undertook  the  enterprise, 

"autant  pour  faciliter  I'intelligence  de  la  langue  Anglaise,  que 
pour  faire  connoitre  en  France  un  digne  rival  d'Ossian,  de  Di-yden, 
et  de  Milton.  Exactitude  rigoureuse  a  la  lettre  et  au  sens,  voila  la 
systerae  qu'on  a  cru  devoir  adopter.  Mais  en  s'attachant  a  rendre 
litteralement  les  pensees,  les  expressions,  les  images,  et  les  figures 
de  I'auteur  Anglais,  on  n'en  a  pas  moins  senti  la  necessite  d'ecrire 
avec  purete,  Elegance,  et  precision." 

In  the  First  Ode,  the  line, 

"  Disclose  the  long-expecting  flowers," 

is  rendered,  '" 

"Elles  ouvrent  le  bouton  des  fleurs  impatientes." 

"  Some  show  their  gayly-gilded  trim, 
Quick  glancing  in  the  sun," 

"  D'autres,  dans  leurs  jeux  vifs  et  legers,  font  etinceler  au  soleil 
I'or  de  leur  elegante  parure." 

In  the  "  Ode  on  a  Distant  View  of  Eton  College," 
"  Father  Thames "  is  translated  ''  fleuve  pateniel; " 
and  the  lines, 

"  This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins, 
That  every  laboring  sinew  strains," 

are  thus  given : 

"  L'une  torture  les  articulations,  I'autre  allume  le  sang,  celle-ci 
tiraille  douloureusement  tous  les  nerfs." 

In  the  Fourth  Ode, 

"  Stern,  rugged  nurse  !  thy  rigid  lore, 
With  patience  many  a  year  she  bore," 


FORD.  221 

is  rendered, 

"  Austere  et  rude  institutrice,  c'est  sous  ta  discipline  severe 
qu'elle  apprit  a  exercer  sa  patience  pendant  nombre  d'antiees." 

In  the  Fifth  Ode, 

"  To  brisk  notes  in  cadence  beating, 
Glance  tbeir  many  twinkling  feet," 

"  Rapides  comtne  le  din-d'cEil,  leur  jueds  brillans  r^pondent  en 
cadence  a  la  vivacite  des  airs ; " 

"  With  arms  sublime  that  float  upon  the  air, 
In  gliding  state  she  wins  her  easy  way," 

"  Les  bras  Aleves  et  flottans  dans  les  airs,  elle  savance  avee  wne 
noble  aisance  et  ylisse  lajhrement  vers  la  terre;  " 

"  She  deigns  to  hear  the  savage  youth  repeat 
In  loose  numbers,  wildly  sweet," 

"Elle  ne  dedaigne  pas  d'ecouter  les  metres  incorrects  des  jeunes 
sauvages  qui  chantent  en  refrains  grossierement  cadences ; " 

"  Yet  shall  he  mount  and  keep  his  distant  way 

Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate, 
Beneath  the  good  how  far, — but  far  above  the  great," 

"Cependant  il  s'^levera,  et  il  a  marque  sa  place  a  une  grande 
distance  des  homes  dun  destin  vulgaire,  trop  peut-etre  audessous 
des  bons  po(ites,  mais  bien  au  densm  des  grands  "  ! 

I  have  spared  you  the  trial  of  the  Scandinavian 
Odes;  but  hardly  think  you  will  desire  more.  Those 
from  which  I  have  quoted  are  the  most  French  of 
Gray's  odes.  I  only  wish  the  translator  had  attempted 
them  in  verse. 

JOHN. 

At  the  worst,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  have  one's  old  asso- 
ciations revived  by  the  line  or  two  here  and   there 


222  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

which  you  have  quoted  from  tlie  original  poems.  Tlie 
anuotators  may  couviuce  us  that  Gray  uever  used  a 
thought,  image,  or  word,  of  his  own,  in  all  his  verses; 
we  should  like  him  still  as  a  delicate  worker  in  mosaic, 
and  skip  all  the  accusatory  notes  at  the  bottom  of  the 
page.  So  much  originality  is  there  always  in  grace ! 
Gray  is  the  Barrington  of  poets ;  but  who  shall  get 
him  convicted  and  transported?  And  what  place  is 
good  enough  to  be  a  Botany  Bay  for  him  ?  Nihil 
surripuit  quod  non  ornavit. 

PHILIP. 

Gray  came  when  the  British  Muse  was  in  a  deJi- 
quium;  and  while  she  was  lying  as  if  in  articido 
mortis,  the  critics  rushed  in  and  took  possession  of  the 
house  as  sole  legatees.  They  locked  up  everything 
and  put  their  seals  upon  it;  nothing  must  be  used, 
without  a  written  order  from  them  ;  not  a  meal  must 
be  served  up,  except  it  be  a  hash  of  yesterday's  leav- 
ings. Things  must  take  a  new  turn  now ;  they  had 
no  notion  of  seeing  their  soon-to-be- sainted  kins- 
woman's substance  wasted  as  it  had  been,  especially 
when  one  Shakespeare  was  major-domo ;  tliey  would 
soon  have  order  among  the  servants  in  the  house,  or 
somebody  would  smart  for  it ;  everything  had  been 
too  long  at  sixes  and  sevens.  But,  in  the  midst  of 
their  predacious  technicalities,  in  stalks  the  undoubted 
eldest  son,  not  a  very  polished  personage,  and  with 
hands  hardened  by  coarse  familiarity  with  ISIossgiel 
ploughtails,  but  the  true  heir  nevertheless.  He  slaps 
the  powdered  wigs  of  the  technical  gentlemen  in  their 
eyes,  and  they  vanish,  like  Aubrey's  ghost_,  "  with  a 


FORD.  223 

melodious  twang,"  vowing  to  take  the  law  of  him.  It 
was  a  great  mercy  that  he  did  not  serve  them  as 
Ulysses  did    the  waiting-maids. 

JOHN. 

To  open  a  volume  of  Burns,  after  diluting  the  mind 
with  the  stale  insipidities  of  the  mob  of  rhymers  who 
preceded  him,  reminds  me  of  a  rural  adventure  I  had 
last  summer.  Skirting,  in  one  of  my  walks,  a  rocky 
upland  which  hemmed  in  the  low  salt-marsh  I  had 
been  plashing  over,  I  came,  at  a  sudden  turning,  upon 
a  clump  of  wild  red-lilies,  that  burned  fiercely  in  a 
kind  of  natural  fire-place,  shaped  out  for  them  by  an 
inward  bend  of  the  rock.  How  they  seemed  to  usurp 
to  themselves  all  the  blazing  July  sunshine  to  comfort 
their  tropical  hearts  withal !  How  cheap  and  colorless 
looked  the  little  bunch  of  blossomed  weeds  I  had  been 
gathering  with  so  much  care !  How  that  one  prodigal 
clump  seemed  to  have  drunk  suddenly  dry  the  whole 
overrunning  beaker  of  summer,  to'  keep  their  fiery 
madness  at  its  height ! 

PHILIP. 

The  poets  had  been  afraid  that  the  light  of  the 
natural  sun  would  put  their  fires  out,  and  kept  the 
shutters  fast  barred  accordingly.  Burns,  with  one 
lusty  spurn  of  his  foot,  got  rid  of  all  the  old  clumsy 
machinery,  JNIen  began  to  fall  in  love  with  being 
natural,  and  to  grow  unaifected  to  the  extreme  point 
of  affectation.  But  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being  too 
natural ;  we  must  remember  that  it  was  with  a  twig 
of    green    mistletoe   that    Baldur,    the   Scaudiuaviau 


224  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

Apollo,  was  slain.  Delighted  to  see  Burns  whistling 
and  singing  after  his  plough,  and  wearing  his  clouted 
shoon  into  the  Edinburgh  drawing-rooms,  some  inge- 
nious gentlemen,  resolved  to  possess  themselves  of  his 
secret,  whistled  and  sang  louder  than  he,  wore  thicker 
soles,  and  dragged  a  plough  after  them  wherever  they 
went.  The  old  poets  lived  in  too  sincere  an  age,  and 
were  too  truly  independent,  to  think  independence  a 
virtue.  To  try  to  be  independent  is  to  acknowledge 
our  slavery.  It  was  not  from  ignorance  of  rules  and 
unities  that  the  old  dramatists  committed  anachron- 
isms, made  islands  of  countries  set  in  the  heart  of 
continents,  and  put  English  oaths  into  the  mouths  of 
Roman  mobs ;  they  broke  through  such  critical  cob- 
webs, for  they  were  never  spun  to  catch  eagles  in. 
The  laws  of  poetry,  as  they  are  called,  are  only  deduc- 
tions drawn  by  certain  mathematical  minds  from  the 
works  of  established  authors;  let  a  new  genius  come, 
and  these  are  incompetent  to  measure  him.  There  is 
a  most  delicate,  yet  most  unbending  conscience,  in  the 
heart  of  every  true  poet,  from  whose  approval  or 
rejection  of  all  pre-established  laws  he  feels  that  there 
is  no  appeal.  If  he  prefer  the  verdict  of  the  world  to 
that  of  this  instinctive  voice,  it  is  all  over  with  him ; 
thenceforth  he  is  but  an  echo,  and  his  immortality  as 
frail  as  that.  What  cared  our  old  dramatists  for 
Aristotle's  Poetics;  They  laid  their  scenes  in  the  un- 
changeable heart  of  man,  and  so,  like  Doniie's  fancy, 

"  Made  one  little  room  an  everywhere." 

They  scorned  to  bow  the  knee  to  any  authority  whose 
feet  were  of  clay.     They  knew  that  he  who  strives  to 


FORD.  225 

keeji  an  act  of  fealty  to  slavery  secret,  defies  his  own 
consciousness.  Some  strange  ])rovidencc  always  makes 
it  public  and  open  as  the  prostration  of  King  Ottocar. 
The  homage  that  a  man  does  in  his  secretest  soul  is 
visible  to  all  time;  there  will  be  a  cringe  and  stoop  in 
his  shoulders,  in  spite  of  him.  The  galling  mark  of 
the  fetter  will  never  out ;  men  read  it  in  every  line  he 
writes,  hear  it  in  every  word  he  speaks,  and  see  it  ia 
every  look  he  looks.  Though  he  be  no  longer  the 
slave  of  a  coward  deference  to  the  opinion  of  the 
many,  merely  because  they  are  the  many,  he  is  still 
the  bondman  of  Memory,  who  can  make  him  crouch 
at  her  bidding.  You  may  think  that  the  writers  of 
that  day  had  no  daws  to  peck  at  them  ;  but  hear  the 
admired  Sir  John  Plarringtou,  who,  in  his  "Apology 
for  Poesy,"  says: 

"  We  live  in  such  a  time  in  which  nothing  can  escape  the 
envious  tooth  and  backbiting  tongue  of  an  impure  mouth ;  and 
wlierein  every  corner  hath  a  squint-eyed  Zoilus  tliat  can  looli 
aright  on  no  man's  doings." 

Even  King  James,  whose  authorship  was  most  likely 
as  secure  from  such  rubs  as  any,  prefixes  this  quotation 
to  his  "  Rules  for  Scottish  Verse :  " 

"To  ignorants  obdurde,  where  wilful  error  lies, 
Nor  yet  to  carping  folks,  whose  malice  may  deject  thee, 
Nor  to  such  folks  as  think  them  only  wise, 
But  to  the  docile  bairns  of  knowledge  I  direct  thee." 

I  have  quoted  these  royal  rhymes  from  memory,  and 
may  not  have  done  them  full  justice;  but  I  am  sure  I 
have  given  them  with  enough  exactness. 

15 


22G  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

But  a  subject  on  ^vhich  I  love  to  talk  has  led  me 
astray  ,\^let  us  return  to  Ford.  His  dramatic  power 
consists  mainly  in  the  choice  of  his  plots.  His  cha- 
racters, as  is  often  the  case  with  those  of  retired 
students,  are  rather  certain  turns  of  mind  or  eccentrici- 
ties put  into  a  body,  than  real  men  and  women.J 

JOHN. 

He  does  not  carry  matters  quite  so  far  as  some  later 
writers,  w^ho  go  to  the  expense  of  a  whole  human 
frame  for  the  mere  sake  of  bringing  a  single  humorous 
phrase  upon  the  stage, — the  sole  use  of  the  legs  being 
to  carry  about  the  body,  that  of  the  body  to  sustain 
the  head,  and  that  of  the  head  to  utter  the  said  humor- 
ous phrase  at  proper  intervals.  Friar  Bacon's  head, 
or  one  of  those  "  airy  tongues "  which  ]\Iilton  bor- 
rowed of  Marco  Polo,  would  save  these  gentry  a  great 
waste  of  flesh  and  bone,  if  it  could  be  induced  to  go 
upon  the  stage. 

PHILIP. 

No;  Ford  is  not  quite  so  spendthrift  in  human 
beings  as  that.  Guardians  should  be  appointed  for 
such  authors,  as  for  those  who  cannot  take  care  of 
their  estates.— fHis  plots  raise  him  and  carry  him  along 
with  them  whither  they  please,  and  it  is  generally 
only  at  their  culminating  points  that  he  shows  much 
strength  ;  and  then  it  is  the  strength  of  passion,  not  of 
reason.  Indeed,  I  do  not  know  but  it  should  rather 
be  called  M^eakness.  He  puts  his  characters  in  situ- 
ations where  the  heart  that  has  a  drop  of  hot  blood  in 
it  finds  it  easier  to  be  strons:  than  weak.     His  heroes 


FORD.  227 

show  that  fitful  strength  whicli  grows  out  of  intense 
excitement,  rather  than  healthy  muscular  action  ;  it 
does  not  rise  with  the  difficulty  or  danger  they  are  in, 
and,  looking  down  on  it,  assert  calmly  the  unusurpable 
sovereignty  of  the  soul,  even  after  the  flesh  is  over- 
come, but  springs  forward  iu  an  exulting  gush  of 
glorious  despair  to  grapple  with  death  and  fate.  In  a 
truly  noble  bravery  of  soul,  the  interest  is  wholly  the 
fruit  of  immortality ;  here,  it  is  the  Sodom-apple  of 
mortality.  In  the  one  case,  we  exult  to  see  the  infinite 
overshadow  and  dwarf  the  finite;  in  the  other,  Ave 
cannot  restrain  a  kind  of  romantic  enthusiasm  and 
admiration  at  seeing  the  weak  clay  so  gallantly  defy 
the  overwhelming  power  which  it  well  knows  must 
crush  it.  High  genius  may  be  fiery  and  impetuous, 
but  it  can  never  bully  and  look  big ;  it  does  not  defi/ 
death  and  futurity,  for  a  doubt  of  its  monarchy  over 
them  never  overflushed  its  serene  countenance. 

JOHN. 

Shakespeare's  characters  seem  to  modify  his  plots  as 
much  as  they  are  modified  by  them  in  turn.  This 
may  be  the  result  of  his  unapproachable  art;  for  art  in 
him  is-  but  the  tracing  of  nature  to  her  primordial 
laws, — is  but  nature  precipitated,  as  it  were,  by  the 
infallible  test  of  philosophy.  In  his  plays,  as  in  life, 
there  is  a  perpetual  seesaw  of  character  and  circum- 
stance, now  one  uppermost,  now  the  other.  Nature  is 
never  afraid  to  reason  in  a  circle;  we  must  let  her 
assume  her  premises,  and  make  our  deductions  logical 
accordingly.  The  actors  in  Sliakespeare's  dramas  are 
only  overcome  by  so  much  as  they  fall  below  their 


228  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

ideal  and  are  wanting  in  some  attribute  of  true  man- 
hood. Wherever  we  go  with  him,  the  absence  of  a 
virtue  always  suggests  its  presence,  the  want  of  any 
nobleness  makes  us  feel  its  beauty  the  more  keenly. 

PHILIP. 

But  Ford's  heroes  are  strong  only  in  tlieir  imperfec- 
tions, and  it  is  to  these  that  whatever  admiration  we 
yield  them  is  paid.  They  interest  us  only  so  far  as 
they  can  make  us  forget  our  quiet,  calm  ideal.  This 
is  the  very  stamp  of  weakness.  We  should  be  sur- 
prised if  we  saw  them  show  any  natural  greatness. 
They  are  morbid  and  unhealthy ;  for,  in  truth,  what 
we  call  greatness  and  nobleness  is  but  entire  health ; 
to  those  only  who  are  denaturalized  themselves  do  they 
seem  wonderful ;  to  the  natural  man  they  are  as  cus- 
tomary and  unconscious  as  the  beating  of  his  heart  or 
the  motion  of  his  lungs,  and  as  necessary.  Therefore 
it  is  that  praise  always  surprises  and  humbles  true 
genius ;  the  shadow  of  eartli  comes  then  between  it 
and  its  starry  ideal  with  a  cold  and  dark  eclipse.  In 
Ford's  characters,  the  sublimity,  if  there  be  any,  is 
that  of  a  defiant  despair. 

JOHN. 

The  great  genius  may  fail,  but  it  is  never  thus.  In 
him  the  spirit  often  overbalances  the  body,  and  sets  its 
ideal  too  far  beyond  the  actual.  Unable  to  reach  that, 
lie  seems  to  do  less  than  many  a  one  of  less  power ; 
for  the  performance  of  anything  lower  than  what  he 
has  marked  out  for  himself  carries  with  it  a  feeling 
almost  of  degradation,  that  dispirits  him.     His  wings 


FORD.  229 

may  be  too  weak  to  bear  liliii  to  that  infiuite  height; 
but,  if  he  fail,  he  is  an  angel  still,  and  falls  not  so  low 
as  the  proudest  pitch  of  talent.  His  failures  are  suc- 
cessful, compared  with  the  successes  of  others.  But 
not  to  himself  do  they  seem  so;  though,  at  his  earth- 
dwindling  height,  he  show  like  a  star  to  the  eyes  of 
the  world,  what  is  it  to  him,  while  he  beholds  the 
gulden  gates  of  his  aspiration  above  him  still,  fost  shut 
and  barred  imraitigably?  Yet  high  genius  has  that 
in  it  which  makes  that  its  longings  can  never  be 
wholly  fruitless;  its  utmost  imperfection  has  some 
touch  of  the  perfect  in  it. 

PHILIP. 

The  slavery  of  the  character  to  the  incident  in 
Ford's  plays  has  often  reminded  me  of  that  story  of 
the  travellers  who  lost  their  way  in  the  mummy-pits, 
and  who  were  all  forced  to  pass  through  the  same 
narrow  orifice,  which  gave  ready  way  to  the  slender, 
but  through  which  the  stout  were  obliged  to  wriggle 
and  squeeze  with  a  desperate  forgetfulness  of  bulk. 
It  may  be  foolish  for  a  philosopher,  but  it  is  wisdom 
in  a  dramatist,  to  follow  the  example  of  nature,  who 
always  takes  care  to  make  large  holes  for  her  large 
cats  and  small  holes  for  her  small  ones. — Ford,  per- 
haps, more  than  any  of  his  contemporaries  deserves 
the  name  of  sentimental.  He  has  not  the  stately 
gravity  and  antique  majesty  of  Chapman,  the  wild 
imagination  or  even  the  tenderness  of  Webster,  the 
precise  sense  of  Jonson,  the  homeliness  of  Heywood, 
nor  the  delicate  apprehension  and  silver  tongue  of 
Fletcher ;  but  he  has  more  sentiment  than  all  of  them 


230  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

put  together.  The  names  of  his  plays  show  the  bent 
of  his  mind ;  "  Love's  Sacrifice,"  "  The  Lover's  Melan- 
choly," and  "  The  Broken  Heart,"  are  the  names  of 
three  of  the  best ;  and  there  is  another  in  which  the 
doctrine  of  the  elective  affinities  is  laid  down  broadly 
enough  to  have  shocked  even  Goethe.  His  personal 
appearance  seems  to  have  answered  well  enough  to 
what  I  have  surmised  of  his  character.  A  contem- 
porary thus  graphically  describes  him : 

"  Deep  in  a  dump  John  Ford  was  alone  gat, 
AVith  folded  arms  and  melancholy  hat." 

A  couplet  which  brings  up  the  central  figure  on  the 
title-page  to  the  old  edition  of  the  "Anatomy  of  Mel- 
ancholy "  very  vividly  before  our  eyes.  (^  His  depend- 
ence on  things  out  of  himself  is  shown  also  in  his  his- 
torical play  of  "  Perkin  Warbeck,"  in  M'hich,  having 
no  very  exciting  j)lot  to  sustain  him,  he  is  very  gentle- 
manly and  very  dulL/  He  does  not  furnish  so  many 
isolated  passages  which  are  complete  in  themselves, — 
a  quality  remarkable  in  the  old  dramatists,  among 
whom  only  Shakspeare  united  perfectness  of  the  parts 
with  strict  adaptation  and  harmony  of  the  whole.  A 
play  of  Shakspeare's  seems  like  one  of  those  basaltic 
palaces  whose  roof  is  supported  by  innumerable  pillai*s, 
each  formed  of  many  crystals  perfect  in  themselves. 
To  give  you  a  fair  idea  of  Ford,  I  will  sketch  out  the 
plot  of  his  most  famous  tragedy,  Avith  a  few  extracts. 
The  plot  of  "  The  Broken  Heart "  is  simply  this. 
Ithoclcs,  the  favorite  of  Amyclas,  king  of  Laconia, 
instigated  by  an  ancient  feud  with  Orgilus,  the  be- 
trothed of  his  sister  Penthea,  has  forced  her  to  break 


FORD.  231 

the  match  and  many  Bassancs.  Orgilus,  full  of  an 
intent  to  revenge  himself  at  the  first  chance,  pretends 
a  reconcilement  with  Ithocles,  who,  meanwhile,  has 
repented  of  the  wrong  he  luid  done,  and  moreover 
loves  and  is  beloved  by  Calantha,  the  king's  daughter. 
Penthea  dies  mad.  Orgihis  murders  Ithocles  on  the 
eve  of  his  marriage  with  Calantha,  Avho  dies  of  a 
broken  heart,  after  naming  Nearchus,  a  former  suitor, 
her  successor  to  the  throne.  The  following  scene  has 
great  purity  and  beauty,  and  withal  much  sentimen- 
talism  in  it.  Orgilus,  in  the  disguise  of  a  scholar  (a 
disguise  as  common  now  as  then),  has  gained  speech  of 
Penthea.     I  read  only  the  last  part  of  the  scene : 

"  Org.     All  pleasures  are  but  mere  imagination, 
Feeding  the  hungry  appetite  with  steam 
And  sight  of  banquet,  whilst  the  body  pines, 
Not  relishing  the  real  taste  of  food : 
Such  is  the  leanness  of  a  heart  divided 
From  intercourse  of  troth-contracted  loves ; 
No  horror  should  deface  that  precious  figure 
Sealed  with  the  lively  stamp  of  equal  souls. 

"  Pen.     Away  !  some  fury  hath  bewitched  thy  tongue: 
The  breath  of  ignorance  that  flics  from  thence 
Kipens  a  knowledge  in  me  of  alllictions 
Above  all  sufferance.     Thing  of  talk,  begone, — 
Begone  without  reply ! 

"  Org.     Be  just,  Penthea, 
In  thy  commands  ;  when  thou  send'st  forth  a  doom 
Of  banishment,  know  first  on  whom  it  lights. 
Thus  I  take  off  the  shroud  in  v.hich  my  cares 
Are  folded  up  from  view  of  common  eyes. 

[  Throws  off  his  scholar's  dress. 

What  is  thy  sentence  next? 

"  Pen.     R:ish  man  !  thou  lay'st 
A  blemish  on  mine  honor,  with  the  hazard 


232  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

Of  thy  too  desperate  life ;  yet  I  profess, 
By  all  tlie  laws  of  ceremonious  Avedlock, 
I  have  not  given  admittance  to  one  thought 
Of  female  cJiange,  since  cruelty  enforced 
Divorce  betwixt  my  body  and  my  heart. 
Why  would  you  fall  from  goodness  thus  ? 

"  Org.     O,  rather 
Examine  me,  how  I  could  live  to  say 
I  have  been  much,  much  wronged  !     'T  is  for  thy  sake 
I  put  on  this  imposture  ;  dear  Penthea, 
If  thy  soft  bosom  be  not  turned  to  marble, 
Thou  'It  pity  our  calamities;  my  interest 
Confirms  me,  thou  art  mine  still. 

"  Pen.     Lend  your  hand  ; 
With  both  of  mine  I  clasp  it  thus,  thus  kiss  it. 
Thus  kneel  before  ye. 

[Penthea  kneek. 
"  Org.     You  instruct  my  duty. 

[Orgilus  hieeh. 
'^Pen.     We  may  stand  up.     [They  rise.}    Have  you  aught 
else  to  urge 
Of  new  demand  ?  as  for  the  old,  forget  it ; 
'T  is  buried  in  an  everlasting  silence, 
And  shall  be,  shall  be  ever :  what  more  would  you  ? 

"  Org.     I  would  possess  my  wife  ;  the  equity 
Of  very  reason  bids  me. 
"  Pen.    Is  that  all  ? 

"  Org.     Why,  't  is  the  all  of  me,  myself. 
"  Pen.     Remove 
Your  steps  some  distance  from  me ;  at  this  pace 
A  fevf  words  I  dare  change ;  but  first  put  on 
Your  borrowed  shape. 

"  Org.     You  are  obeyed ;  't  is  done. 

[He  resumes  his  disguise. 

"Pen.     How,  Orgilus,  by  promise,  1  was  thine. 
The  heavens  do  witness  ;  they  can  witness,  too, 
A  rape  done  on  my  truth  :  how  I  do  love  thee 
Yet,  Orgilus,  and  yet,  must  best  appear 
In  tendering  thy  freedom  ;  for  I  find 


I 


FORD.  233 

The  constant  preservation  of  thy  merit, 
By  thy  not  daring  to  attempt  my  fame 
Wiih  injury  of  any  loose  conceit, 
Which  might  give  deeper  wounds  to  discontents. 
Continue  this  fair  race;  then,  though  I  cannot 
Add  to  thy  comfort,  yet  I  shall  more  often 
Remember  from  what  fortune  I  am  fallen. 
And  pity  mine  own  ruin.     Live,  live  happy, 
Happy  in  thy  next  choice,  that  thou  may"st  people 
This  barren  age  with  virtues  in  thy  issue  I 
And,  0,  when  thou  art  married,  think  on  me 
"With  mercy,  not  contempt  I  I  hope  thy  wife, 
Hearing  my  story,  will  not  scorn  my  fall. — 
Now  let  us  part. 

"  Org.     Part  ?  yet  advise  thee  better : 
Penthea  is  the  wife  to  Orgilus, 
And  ever  shall  be. 

"  Pen.     Xever  shall,  nor  will. 

"  Org.     How  ! 

"  Pen.     Hear  me ;  in  a  word  I  "11  tell  thee  why. 
The  virgin-dowry  which  my  birth  bestowed 
Is  ravished  by  another ;  my  true  love 
Abhors  to  think  that  Orgilus  deserved 
No  better  favors  than  a  second  bed. 

"  Org.     I  must  not  take  this  reason. 

"  Pen.     To  confirm  it, — 
Should  I  outlive  my  bondage,  let  me  meet 
Another  worse  than  this,  and  less  desired, 
If,  of  all  men  alive,  thou  shouldst  but  touch 
My  lip  or  hand  again  ! 

"  Org.     Penthea,  now 
I  tell  you,  you  grow  wanton  in  my  sufferance  ; 
Come,  sweet,  thou  art  mine. 

"  Pen.     Uncivil  Sir,  forbear. 
Or  I  can  turn  affection  into  vengeance : 
Your  reputation,  if  you  value  any, 
Lies  bleeding  at  my  feet.     Unworthy  man. 
If  ever  henceforth  thou  appear  in  language, 
Message,  or  letter,  to  betray  my  frailty, 


234  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

I  'II  call  thy  former  protestations  lust, 
And  curse  my  stars  for  forfeit  of  my  judgment. 
Go  thou,  fit  only  for  disguise  and  walks 
To  hide  thy  shame;  this  once  I  spare  thy  life. 
I  laugh  at  mine  own  confidence ;  my  sorrows 
By  thee  are  made  inferior  to  my  fortunes  : 
If  ever  thou  didst  harbor  worthy  love. 
Dare  not  to  answer.     My  good  genius  guide  me, 
That  I  may  never  see  thee  more  ! — Go  from  me  ! 
"  Org.     I  '11  tear  my  veil  of  politic  French  off, 
And  stand  up  like  a  man  resolved  to  do : 
Action,  not  words,  shall  show  me. — O  Panthea ! 

\_ExiL 

"  Pen.     He  sighed  my  name,  sure,  as  he  parted  from  me  ; 
I  fear  I  was  too  rough.     Alas,  poor  gentleman ! 
He  looked  not  like  the  ruins  of  his  youth. 
But  like  the  ruins  of  those  ruins.     Honor, 
How  much  we  fight  with  weakness  to  preserve  thee ! 

[  Walks  aside." 

To  ray  mind,  Panthea's  la.st  speech  is  the  best  part 
of  the  scene.  In  the  first  part,  she  shows  an  appar- 
ently Roman  virtue ;  but  there  seems  to  be  in  it  a 
savor  of  prudery,  and  a  suspicion  of  its  own  strength, 
which  a  truly  courageous  honor  and  chastity  would 
be  the  last  to  entertain. 

None  of  our  dramatists  but  Shakespeare  have  been 
able  to  paint  madness.  Most  of  their  attempts  that 
way  are  failures ;  they  grow  silly  and  mopingly  senti- 
mental ;  they  utter  a  great  deal  of  such  stuff  as  nobody 
in  his  senses  would  utter,  and  as  nobody  out  of  them 
could  have  the  ingenious  leisure  to  invent.  Here  is  a 
specimen  of  Ford's  mania : 

"  Pen.    Sure,  if  we  were  all  sirens,  we  would  sing  pitifully ; 
And  't  were  a  comely  music,  when  in  parts 


FORD.  235 

One  sung  another's  knell :  the  turtle  sighs 
\Vhen  he  hath  lost  his  mate  ;  and  yet  some  say 
He  must  be  dead  first.     'T  is  a  fine  deceit 
To  pass  away  in  a  dream  !  indeed,  I  've  slept 
With  mine  eyes  open  a  great  while.     No  falsehood 
Equals  a  broken  faith  ;  there  's  not  a  hair    * 
Sticks  on  my  head  but,  like  a  leaden  plummet, 
It  sinks  me  to  the  grave:  I  must  creep  thither; 
The  journey  is  not  long. 

"  Pen.     Spare  your  hand ; 
Believe  me,  I  '11  not  hurt  it. 

"  Org.     My  heart  too. 

"  Pen.    Complain  not,  though  I  wring  it  hard  ;  I  '11  kiss  it: 
O,  't  is  a  fine,  soft  palm  !— Hark,  in  thine  ear ; 
Like  whom  do  I  look,  prithee  ?— nay,  no  whispering. 
Goodness  !  we  had  been  happy ;  too  much  happiness 
Will  make  folk  proud,  tliey  say,— but  that  is  he,— 

[Pohiling  to  Ithocles. 
And  yet  he  paid  for  't  home;  alas  !  his  heart 
Is  crept  into  the  cabinet  of  the  princess  : 
We  shall  have  points  and  bride-laces.     Remember, 
When  we  last  gathered  roses  in  the  garden, 
I  found  my  wits ;  but  truly  you  lost  yours. 
That 's  he,  and  still  't  is  he. 

[Again  pointing  to  Ithocles." 

Now  let  us  turn  to  the  catastrophe.  Calantha,  after 
settling  the  succession  of  the  kingdom,  turns  to  the 
body  of  Ithocles. 

"  Cal.     Forgive  me  : — now  I  turn  to  thee,  thou  shadow 
Of  my  contracted  lord  !     Bear  witness  all, 
I  put  my  mother's  wedding-ring  upon 

His  finger  ;  't  was  my  father's  last  bequest.  > 

[Places  a  ring  on  the  finger  of  IthocleS.  I 

Thus  I  new-marry  him  whose  wife  I  am ; 
Death  shall  not  separate  us.     O  my  Lords, 
I  but  deceived  your  eyes  with  antic  gesture, 


I 


236  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

When  one  news  straight  came  huddling  on  another, 

Of  death  !  and  death  !  and  death  !  still  I  danced  forward  • 

But  it  struck  home,  and  here,  and  in  an  instant. 

Be  such  mere  women,  who  with  shrieks  and  outcries 

Can  vow  a  present  end  to  all  their  sorrows. 

Yet  live  to  [court]  new  pleasures,  and  outlive  them : 

They  are  the  silent  griefs  which  cut  the  heart-strings ; 

Let  me  die  smiling. 

"Near.     'T  is  a  truth  too  ominous. 

"  Cal.     One  kiss  on  these  cold  lijjs,  my  last! — [A75ses  Itho- 
CLES.] — crack,  crack, — 
Argos  now  's  Sparta's  king.     Command  the  voices 
Which  wait  at  th'  altar  now  to  sing  the  song 
I  fitted  for  my  end." 

Lamb  speaks  of  this  death-scene  as  "  eanyiug  us 
back  to  Calvary  and  the  cross  "  (or  uses  words  to  that 
effect) ;  but  tliis,  it  seems  to  me,  is  attributing  too  much 
importance  to  the  mere  pliysical  fact  of  dying. 


JOHN. 

What  one  dies  for,  not  his  dying,  glorifies  him.  The 
comparison  is  an  irreverent  one,  as  that  must  need  be 
which  matches  a  selfish  love  with  a  universal.  Love's 
nobility  is  shown  in  this,  that  it  strengthens  us  to 
make  sacrifices  for  others,  and  not  for  the  object  of  our 
love  alone.  All  the  good  we  do  is  a  service  done  to 
that,  but  that  is  not  the  sole  recipient.  Our  love  for 
one  is  only  therefore  made  pre-eminent,  that  it  may 
show  us  the  beauty  and  holiness  of  that  love  whose 
arms  are  wide  enough  for  all.  It  is  easy  enough  to 
die  for  one  we  love  so  fiercely ;  but  it  is  a  harder  and 
nobler  martyrdom  to  live  for  others.  Love  is  only 
then  perfected,  when  it  can  bear  to  outlast  the  body, 


FORD.  237 

which  was  but  its  outward  expression  and  a  prop  for 
its  infant  steps,  and  can  feel  its  union  with  the  beloved 
spirit  in  a  mild  serenity,  and  an  inward  prompting  to 
a  thousand  little  unrewarded  acts  of  every -day  brother- 
hood.    The  love  of  one  is  a  mean,  not  an  end. 

PHILIP. 

Another  objection  which  I  should  feel  inclined  to 
bring  against  this  scene  is,  that  the  breaking  of  Calan- 
tha's  heart  seems  to  be  made  too  palpable  and  anatom- 
ical an  event.  It  is  too  much  like  the  mere  bursting 
of  a  blood-vessel,  which  Smith  or  Brown  might 
accomplish,  though  wholly  incapable  of  rendering 
themselves  tragically  available  by  the  breaking  of 
their  hearts.     It  is  like  that  stanza  of  the  old  ballad, 

"  She  turned  her  back  unto  the  wall, 
And  her  face  unto  the  rock  ; 
And  there,  before  her  mother's  eyes, 
Her  very  heart  it  broke.'' 

In  the  ballad,  however,  there  is  more  propriety ;  the 
heroine's  heart  gives  way  suddenly,  under  a  sudden 
blow.  But  Calantha  saves  up  her  heart-break,  as  it 
were,  until  it  can  come  in  with  proper  effect  at  the  end 
of  the  tragedy. 

Ford  sometimes  reminds  one  of  the  picturesque 
luxuriance  of  Fletcher./  The  following  exquisite  pas- 
sage is  very  like  Fletcher,  and  is  a  good  specimen 
of  Ford's  lighter  powers.  When  we  read  it,  we 
almost  wish  we  had  written  masques  or  pastorals, 
rather  than  plays.  The  story  is  an  old  one,  and 
was  paraphrased  by  Crashawe,  in  a  poem  which,  for 


I 


238  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

exquisite  rhythm  and  diction,  can  hardly  be  paralleled 
in  the  language.  Ford  brings  it  in  in  his  "  Lover's 
Melancholy." 

"  One  morning  early, 
This  accident  encountered  me  :  I  heard 
The  sweetest  and  most  ravishing  contention 
That  art  and  nature  ever  were  at  strife  in. 
A  sound  of  music  touched  mine  ears,  or  rather. 
Indeed,  entranced  my  soul.     As  I  stole  nearer. 
Invited  by  the  melody,  I  saw 
This  youth,  this  fair-faced  youth,  upon  his  lute, 
With  strains  of  strange  variety  and  harmony. 
Proclaiming,  as  it  seemed,  so  bold  a  challenge 
To  the  clear  choristers  of  the  woods,  the  birds. 
That,  as  they  flocked  about  him,  all  stood  silent, 
Wondering  at  what  they  heard :  I  wondered  too. 

A  nightingale, 
Nature's  best-skilled  musician,  undertakes 
The  challenge,  and,  for  every  several  strain 
The  well  shaped  youth  could  touch,  she  sang  her  own ; 
He  could  not  run  division  with  more  art 
Upon  his  quaking  instrument,  than  she, 
The  nightingale,  did  with  her  various  notes 
Reply  to  ;  for  a  voice  and  for  a  sound, 
Amethus,  'tis  much  easier  to  believe 
That  such  they  were,  than  hope  to  hear  again. 
Some  time  thus  spent,  the  young  man  grew  at  last 
Into  a  pretty  anger,  that  a  bird. 
Whom  art  had  never  taught  clefs,  moods,  and  notes, 
Should  vie  with  him  for  mastery,  whose  study 
Had  busied  many  hours  to  perfect  practice : 
To  end  the  controversy,  in  a  rapture 
Upon  his  instrument  he  plays  so  swiftly, 
So  many  voluntaries  and  so  quick. 
That  there  was  curiosity  and  cunning. 
Concord  and  discord,  lines  of  diflering  method, 
Meeting  in  one  full  centre  of  deliglit. 
The  bird,  ordained  to  be 


I 


I 


FORD.  239 

Music's  first  martyr,  strove  to  imitate 
These  several  sounds;  which  wlien  her  warbling  throat 
Failed  in,  for  grief,  down  dropped  she  on  his  lute 
And  brake  her  heart !  " 

I  must  givo  you  a  short  passage  from  Crashavve's 
poem,  which  I  cannot  help  thinking  the  best  music  in 
words  I  ever  read.  Crashawe  was  himself  an  exquisite 
musician.  After  the  lutauist  has  played  a  strain,  the 
ni";htingale  answers. 

"  She  measures  every  measure,  everywhere 
Meets  art  wifli  art;  sometimes,  as  if  in  doubt 
Not  perfect  yet,  and  fearing  to  be  out, 
Waih  her  plain  ditty  in  one  long-spun  note, 
Tlirowjh  the  sleek  passage  of  her  open  throat, 
A  clear,  unwrinkled  song  ;  then  doth  she  point  it 
With  tender  accents,  and  severely  joint  it 
By  short  diminutives,  that,  being  reared 
In  controverting  warbles  evenly  shared, 
With  her  sweet  self  she  wrangles 

"  Her  supple  breast  thrills  out 
Sharp  airs,  and  staggers  in  a  warbling  doubt 
Of  dallying  sweetness,  hovers  o'er  her  skill, 
And  folds  in  waved  notes,  with  a  trembling  bill, 
The  pliant  series  of  her  slippery  song  : 
Then  starts  she  suddenly  into  a  throng 
Of  short,  thick  sobs,     ..... 
Tliat  roll  themselves  over  her  lubric  throat 
In  panting  murmurs  'stilled  out  of  her  breast. 
That  ever-bubbling  spring,  the  sugared  nest 
Of  her  delicious  soul,  that  there  doth  lie, 
Bathing  in  streams  of  liquid  melody ; 
Music's  best  seed-plot,  where  in  ripened  airs 
A  golden-headed  harvest  fairly  rears 
Its  honey -dropping  tops,  ploughed  by  her  breath." 


240  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

JOHX. 
May  we  neither  of  us  ever  hear  a  nightingale ! — 
No,  I  recall  so  rash  a  prayer ;  but,  after  this,  we  should 
surely  think  his  music  harsh.  Even  the  extravagant 
metaphor  with  which  your  extract  ended  is  forced 
upon  us  as  natural  and  easy  by  the  foregoing  enthusi- 
asm. 

PHILIP. 

Now  that  the  nightingale  has  enticed  us  out  of 
doors,  you  will  like  to  hear  Ford's  praise  of  Spring. 
Raybright  asks  Spring, 

"  What  dowry  can  you  bring  me  ? 
"  Sprimj.     Dowry  ? 
Is  't  come  to  this?  am  I  held  poor  and  base? 
A  girdle  make,  whose  buckles,  stretched  their  length, 
Shall  reach  from  the  Arctic  to  the  Antarctic  pole? 
What  ground  soe'er  thou  canst  with  that  inclose 
I'll  give  thee  freely.     Not  a  lark  that  culls 
The  morning  up  shall  build  on  any  turf 
But  he  shall  be  thy  tenant,  call  thee  lord, 
And  for  his  rent  pay  thee  in  change  of  songs." 

The  Sun^s  Darling. 

And  again : 

"O  my  dear  love,  the  Spring,  I'm  cheated  of  thee! 
Thou  hadst  a  body,  the  four  elements 
Dwelt  never  in  a  fairer ;  a  mind  princely  ; 
Thy  language,  like  thy  singers,  musical. 
How  cool  wast  thou  in  anger !     In  thy  diet 
How  temperate  and  yet  sumptuous !  thou'd^t  not  waste 
The  weight  of  a  sad  violet  in  excesf:, 
Yet  still  thy  board  had  dishes  numberless. 
Dumb  beasts,  even,  loved  thee  ;  once  a  young  lark 
Sat  on  thy  hand,  and,  gazing  on  thine  eyes, 
Mounted  and  sang,  thinking  them  moving  skies." 

Ibid. 


FORD.  241 

Now  I  will  gather  you  a  hamlful  of  flowers  from 
the  rest  of  the  plays  aud  close  the  volume.  Here  is  a 
pretty  illustration  of  the  doctrine  of  sympathies : 

"  The  constant  loadstone  and  the  steel  are  found 
In  several  mines;  yet  there  is  such  a  league 
Between  these  minerals,  as  if  one  vein 
Of  earth  had  nourished  both.     The  gentle  myrtle 
Is  not  engraft  upon  the  olive's  stock ; 
Yet  nature  hath  between  them  locked  a  secret 
Of  sympathy,  that,  being  planted  near, 
They  will,  both  in  their  branches  and  their  roots, 
Embrace  each  other  ;  twines  of  ivy  round 
The  well-grown  oak  ;  the  vine  doth  court  the  elm ; 
Yet  these  are  different  plants.'' 

The  Lovei-'s  Mdancholy. 

The  end  of  a  wasted   life  is  thus  touchingly  set        ) 
forth : 

"  Minutes  are  numbered  by  the  fall  of  sands, 
As  by  an  hour-glass;  the  span  of  time 
Doth  waste  us  to  our  graves,  and  we  look  on  it ; 
An  age  of  pleasures  revelled  out  comes  home 
At  last  and  ends  in  sorrow ;  but  the  life, 
Weary  of  riot,  numbers  every  sand. 
Wailing  in  sighs  until  the  last  drop  do\vn 
So  to  conclude  calamity  in  rest." 

Knd. 
JOHN. 

The  rhythm  of  these  lines  is  finely  managed ;  there 
is  a  sadness  and  weariness  in  the  flow  of  the  verse, 
which  sinks  gradually  into  the  quiet  of  the  exquisitely 
modulated  last  line.  ^ 

PHILIP. 

I  will  read  a  few  more  fragments  without  remark. 

"Busy  opinion  is  an  idle  fool, 
That,  as  a  school-rod,  keeps  a  child  in  awe, 
Frights  the  inexperienced  temper  of  the  mind."        Ibid. 
16 


242  FOURTH  CONVERSATION. 

"Let  upstarts  exercise  unmanly  roughness; 
Clear  spirits  to  the  humble  will  be  humble." 

Ladys  Tried. 
"  The  sweetest  freedom  is  an  honest  heart" 

Ibid. 

You  will  relish  this  itemed  account  of  a  poor  man's 
revenues : 

"  What  lands  soe'er  the  world's  surveyor,  the  sun, 
Can  measure  in  a  day,  I  dare  call  mine; 
All  kingdoms  I  have  right  to  ;  I  am  free 
Of  every  country  ;  in  the  four  elements 
I  have  as  deep  share  as  an  emperor  ; 
All  beasts  which  the  earth  bears  are  to  serve  me, 
All  birds  to  sing  to  me ;  and_ean  you  catch  me 
AVith  a  tempting  golden  apple  ?  " 

The  Sun's  Darling. 

This  thought  is  noble  : 

"  He  cannot  fear, 
Who  builds  on  noble  grounds ;  sickness  or  pain 
Is  the  deserver's  exercise." 

The  Broken  Heart. 

And,  with  this  good  speech  on  his  lips,  John  Ford 
makes  his  exit  from  the  stage  of  our  little  private 
theatre. 

JOHN. 

I  have  spent  a  pleasant  evening ;  and,  if  I  do  not 
yet  admire  your  old  favorites  as  much  as  you  do,  it  is 
because  I  do  not  know  them  so  well.  It  has  been  my 
happy  experience  in  life  to  find  some  lovable  quality 
in  every  human  being  I  have  known,  and  to  find  more 
with  more  knowledge;  may  it  be  so  with  the  Old 
Dramatists. 


THE  PLAYS  OF  THOMAS  MIDDLETON. 


"A  great  poem  is  a  fountain  for  ever  overflowing  with  the 
waters  of  wisdom  and  delight,  and  after  one  person  and  one  age 
liave  exhausted  all  of  its  divine  etHuence  which  their  peculiar 
relations  enable  them  to  share,  another  and  yet  another  succeeds, 
and  new  relations  are  ever  developed,  the  source  of  an  unforeseen 
and  unconceived  delight." 

Shelly's  Defense  of  Poetry. 

Poets  are  the  forerunners  and  prophets  of  changes 
in  the  moral  world.  Driven,  by  their  fine  nature,  to 
search  into  and  reverently  contemplate  the  universal 
laws  of  soul,  they  find  some  fragment  of  the  broken 
tables  of  God's  law,  and  interpret  it,  half  conscious  of 
its  mighty  import.  While  philosophers  are  wrang- 
ling, and  politicians  playing  at  snapdragon  with  the 
destinies  of  millions,  the  poet,  in  the  silent  deeps  of 
liis  soul,  listens  to  those  mysterious  pulses  which,  from 
one  central  heart,  send  life  and  beauty  through  the 
finest  veins  of  the  universe,  and  utters  truths  to  be 
sneered  at,  perchance,  by  contemporaries,  but  which 
become  religion  to  posterity.  Not  unwisely  ordered  is 
that  eternal  destiny  which  renders  the  seer  despised  of 
men,  since  thereby  he  is  but  the  more  surely  taught  to 
lay  his  head  meekly  upon  the  mother-breast  of 
Nature,  and  hearken  to  the  musical  soft  beating  of  her 
bounteous  heart. 

243 


244  THE  PLAYS  OF 

That  Poesy,  save  as  she  can  soar  nearer  to  the  bliss- 
ful throne  of  the  Supreme  Beauty,  is  of  no  more  use 
than  all  other  beautiful  things  are,  we  are  fain  to 
grant.  That  she  does  not  add  to  the  outward  wealth 
of  the  body,  and  that  she  is  only  so  much  more  excel- 
lent than  any  bodily  gift,  as  spirit  is  more  excellent 
than  matter,  we  must  also  yield.  But,  inasmuch  as  all 
beautiful  things  are  direct  messages  and  revelations  of 
himself,  given  us  by  our  Father,  and  as  Poesy  is  the 
searcher  out  and  interpreter  of  all  these,  tracing  by 
her  inborn  sympathy  the  invisible  nerves  which  bind 
them  harmoniously  together,  she  is  to  be  revered  and 
cherished.  The  poet  has  a  fresher  memory  of  Eden, 
and  of  the  path  leading  back  thereto,  than  other  men ; 
so  that  we  might  almost  deem  him  to  have  been  con- 
ceived, at  least,  if  not  born  and  nursed,  beneath  the 
ambrosial  shadow  of  those  dimly  remembered  bowers, 
and  to  have  had  his  infmt  ears  filled  with  the  divine 
converse  of  angels,  who  then  talked  face  to  face  with 
his  sires,  as  with  beloved  younger  brethren,  and  of 
whose  golden  Words  only  the  music  remained  to  him, 
vibrating  for  ever  in  his  soul,  and  making  him  yearn 
to  have  all  sounds  of  earth  harmonize  therewith.  In 
the  poet's  lofty  heart  Truth  hangs  her  aery,  and  there 
Love  flowers,  scattering  thence  her  winged  seeds  over 
all  the  earth  with  every  wind  of  heaven.  In  all  ages 
the  poet's  fiery  words  have  goaded  men  to  remember 
and  regain  their  ancient  freedom,  and,  when  they  had 
regained  it,  have  tempered  it  with  a  love  of  beauty, 
so  as  that  it  should  accord  with  the  freedom  of  Nature, 
and  be  as  unmovably  eternal  as  that.  The  dreams  of 
poets  are  morning-dreams,  coming  to  them  in  the  early 


THOMAS  MIDDLETON.  245 

dawn  and  day-l)reaking  of  great  truths,  and  are  surely 
fulfilled  at  last.  They  repeat  them,  as  children  do, 
and  all  Christendom,  if  it  be  not  too  busy  with  quar- 
relling about  the  meaning  of  creeds,  which  have  no 
meaning  at  all,  listens  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders 
and  a  smile  of  pitying  incredulity  ;  for  reformers  are 
always  madmen  in  their  own  age,  and  infallible  saints 
in  the  next. 

We  love  to  go  back  to  the  writings  of  our  old  poete, 
for  we  find  in  them  the  tender  germs  of  many  a 
thought  which  now  stands  like  a  huge  oak  in  the 
inward  world,  an  ornament  and  a  shelter.  We  cannot 
help  reading  with  awful  interest  what  has  been 
written  or  rudely  scrawled  upon  the  walls  of  this  our 
earthly  prison-house,  by  former  dwellers  therein. 
From  that  which  centuries  have  established,  too,  we 
may  draw  true  principles. of  judgment  for  the  poetry 
of  our  own  day.  A  right  knowledge  and  apprelien- 
sion  of  the  past  teaches  humbleness  and  self-sustain- 
ment  to  the  present.  Showing  us  what  has  been,  it 
also  reveals  w^hat  can  be  done.  Progress  is  Janus- 
faced,  looking  to  the  bygone  as  well  as  to  the  coming; 
and  Radicalism  should  not  so  much  busy  itself  with 
lopping  off  the  dead  or  seeming  dead  limbs,  as  with 
clearing  away  that  poisonous  rottenness  around  the 
roots,  from  which  the  tree  has  drawn  the  principle  of 
death  into  its  sap.  A  love  of  the  beautiful  and  -har- 
monious, which  must  be  the  guide  and  forerunner  to 
every  onward  movement  of  humanity,  is  created  and  . 
cherished  more  surely  by  pointing  out  what  beauty 
dwells  in  anything,  even  the  most  deformed,  (for  there 
is  something  in  that,  also,  else  it  could  not  even  be,) 


246  TEE  PLAYS  OF 

than  by  searching  out  and  railing  at  all  tlie  foiihiesses 
in  nature.  Not  till  we  have  patiently  studied  beauty 
can  we  safely  venture  to  look  at  defects,  for  not  till 
then  can  we  do  it  in  that  spirit  of  earnest  love,  which 
gives  more  than  it  takes  away.  Exultingly  as  we  hail 
all  signs  of  progress,  we  venerate  the  past  also.  The 
tendrils  of  the  heart,  like  those  of  ivy,  cling  but  the 
more  closely  to  what  they  have  clung  to  long,  and 
even  when  that  which  they  entwine  crumbles  beneath 
them,  they  still  run  greenly  over  the  ruin,  and  beautify 
those  defects  which  they  cannot  hide.  The  past,  as 
well  as  the  present,  moulds  the  future,  and  the  features 
of  some  remote  progenitor  will  revive  again  freshly  in 
the  latest  offspring  of  the  womb  of  time.  Our  earth 
liangs  well-nigh  silent  now,  amid  the  chorus  of  her 
sister  orbs,  and  not  till  past  and  present  move  har- 
moniously together  will  music  once  more  vibrate  on 
this  long  silent  chord  in  the  symphony  of  the  uni- 
verse. 

Of  Thomas  Middleton  little  is  known.  Indeed,  it 
seems  to  be  the  destiny  of  poets  that  men  should  not 
be  familiar  with  their  personal  history — a  destiny 
which  to  the  thoughtful  has  a  true  and  beautiful 
meaning.  For  it  seems  meant  to  chide  men  for  their 
too  ready  preference  of  names  and  persons  to  things,  by 
showing  them  the  perishableness  of  the  one  and  the 
immortality  of  the  other,  and  to  give  to  those  divine 
teachings  of  theirs  which  remain  to  us  somethhig  of  a 
mysterious  and  oracular  majesty,  as  if  they  were  not 
truly  the  words  of  men,  but  only  more  distinct  utter- 
ances of  those  far-heard  voices  wdiich,  in  the  too 
fleeting  moments  of  a  higher  and  clearer  being,  come 


THOMAS  MIDDLETON.  247 

to  us  from  the  infinite  deep  with  a  feeling  of  some- 
thing heard  in  childhood,  but  long  ago  drowned  in  the 
din  of  life.  It  is  a  lesson,  also,  for  those  who  would 
be  teachers  of  men  that  theirs  must  be  rather  the 
humbly  obedient  voice  than  the  unconquerable  will, 
and  that  he  speaks  best  who  has  listened  longest.  And 
yet  there  is  something  beautiful,  too,  in  the  universal 
longing  which  men  feel  to  see  the  bodily  face  of  that 
soul  whose  "\\'ords  have  strengthened  or  refreshed  them. 
It  is,  perhaps,  the  result  of  an  unconscious  remem- 
brance of  a  perished  faith  in  the  power  of  spirit  over 
matter,  whereby  the  beautiful  soul  builds  for  itself  out 
of  clay  a  dwelling  worthy  and  typical  of  its  majesty. 
Let  Orpheus,  then,  be  a  shadow,  Homer  a  name,  and 
our  divine  Shakespeare  a  mystery ; — we  might  despise 
the  ambrosia  if  we  saw  too  plainly  the  earthen  dish  in 
which  it  was  offered  to  us.  Their  spirits  are  a  part  of 
the  air  we  breathe.  Nothing  that  was  truly  theirs  has 
perished,  or  ever  can  perish.  If  a  sparrow  fall  not  to 
the  o-round  without  His  knowledo;e,  shall  a  word  of 
truth  be  of  less  esteem  in  His  eyes  than  a  sparrow  ? 
No,  buffeted  and  borne  about  as  it  may  be,  by  the 
shifting  winds  of  prejudice,  that  deathless  seed  always 
takes  root  in  the  w^arm  busom  of  the  earth  at  last : — 
buried  for  centuries  haply  in  the  dark  and  dreary  cata- 
combs of  superstition,  the  life  is  yet  new  and  strong 
within  it,  and  in  God's  good  time  it  springs  up  and 
blossoms,  in  an  age  to  which  it  was  more  needful  than 
to  that  in  which  it  w^as  entombed. 

It  is  of  Middleton's  tragedies  chiefly  that  we  shall 
sjjeak,  both  because  they  are  very  fine  ones,  and 
because  from  them   we  can  more  safely  draw  an  esti- 


248  THE  PLAYS  OF 

mate  of  his  character.  A  good  tragedy  is,  perhaps, 
the  hardest  thing  to  write.  Nothing  is  easier  than  to 
draw  tears  from  the  reader;  nothing  surely  is  more 
rare  than  the  power  of  drawing  tliem  rightly,  or  of 
touching  that  deepest  string  of  our  being  which  God, 
that  he  might  give  us  the  most  meaning  lesson  of  uni- 
versal brotherhood,  has  ordained  should  never  quiver 
at  the  touch  of  our  private  sorrows,  how  soul-piercing 
soever.  There  are  a  thousand  who  can  write  patheti- 
cally, for  one  who  has  in  any  measure  of  fulness 
the  tragic  faculty.  Many  may  touch  the  heart,  but 
none  save  a  master  can  bring  up  for  us  the  snowy 
pearls  which  sleep  in  the  deep  abysses  and  caverns  of 
the  soul.  That  our  tears  are  so  ready  has  a  beautiful 
significance, — for  they  are  the  birthright  of  angelic 
natures,  while  it  is  the  curse  of  utterly  fallen  spirits 
that  none  of  this  sweet  dew  should  ever  shed  its  cool- 
ness upon  their  parched  and  burning  cheeks.  Viewed 
rightly,  every  fact  of  our  being  enfolds  a  clear  recog- 
nition of  the  divinity  of  our  nature.  In  childhood 
we  see  this  more  readily,  though  unwittingly ; — every 
flower  which  we  pluck  at  random  in  the  pure  morning 
of  life,  and  cast  from  us  with  a  prodigality  of  beauty 
which  we  grow  charier  of  in  more  thoughtful  years, 
circles  in  its  fragrant  heart  the  dew-drop  which,  small 
as  it  is,  mirrors  the  universe.  In  childhood,  too,  and 
in  women,  (who  never  wander  far  thence,)  the  source 
of  this  never  turbid  fountain  of  our  tears  is  nearer 
the  surface.  The  drifting  sands  of  a  life  which  our 
own  selfishness  makes  a  desert  slowly  choke  it  as  we 
grow  older,  till  at  last  that  which  was  once  a  gentle 
outlet  of  the  crowded  heart  becomes  in  itself  a  more 


THOMAS  MIDDLETON.  249 

bitter  agony.  Beautiful,  therefore,  and  blessed  is  the 
power  of  calling  forth  these  pledges  of  a  teiidercst 
purity  which  lingers  life-long,  fluttering  anear  its  scat- 
tered nest,  and  will  not  be  seared  away.  How  more 
beautiful  and  blessed  it  is  so  to  summon  them  as  that 
they  shall  give  back  to  us,  though  only  for  a  moment, 
those  holy  impulses  and  gracious  instincts  of  which 
they  were  once  both  the  proof  and  the  fulfilment. 
And  this  last  belongs  wholly  to  tragedy, — wherein  we 
weep  rather  for  the  universal  than  the  particular, — for 
the  blight  which  we  sometimes  in  madness  think  to  fall 
always  on  the  purest  aspiration  and  the  teuderst  faith, 
— for  that  blindness  and  Aveakness  which  we  find  also 
in  our  own  hearts,  ready  at  any  moment  to  mislead  us 
into  unconscious  sin,  or  to  give  way,  (for  in  our 
greatest  strength  we  are  readiest  to  lean  upon  reeds,) 
and  to  plunge  us  headlong  and  dizzy  into  the  same 
dreary  void  with  those  imaginary  woes  which  so 
move  us.  But  the  wounds  which  Nature  gives  us 
are  always  to  free  us  from  some  morbid  humor;  and 
tragedy,  in  proving  to  us  the  weakness  of  humanity, 
shows  us  at  the  same  time  its  glorious  strength,  and 
that  if  lower,  we  are  but  a  little  lower  than  the  anirels. 
— a  majestic  height,  where  we  may  poise  serenely,  if 
we  clog  not  our  silver  plumes  with  clay.  In  tragedy, 
moreover.  Destiny  always  hangs  like  a  thunder-cloud, 
vague  and  huge,  upon  the  horizon,  with  an  awful 
grandeur,  and  we  hear  afar  its  ominous  mutterings, 
and  see  its  lightning  reflected  on  the  blue  craggy  mass 
which  it  reveals  to  us,  hanging  dimly  over  our  own 
heads.  Shapes  float  around  us,  and  voices  are  heard 
from  another  life,  and  we  are  awed  into  an  r.nwillino- 


250  THE  FLAYS  OF 

consciousness  of  the  workings  of  an  unseen  and  in- 
scrutable power.  But  in  writings  strictly  pathetic  our 
sympathies  are  moved  either  for  the  individual  suiFer- 
ino-,  or  against  the  power  (always  a  definite  one)  which 
inflicts  it  unjustly.  Pathos  deals  with  unnatural 
causes;  tragedy  with  those  mysterious  exceptions  to 
the  laws  of  nature  which  are  no  less  natural  than 
those  laws  themselves  with  which  they  make  such 
seeming  discord.  Pathos  is  wholly  the  more  outward 
of  the  two ;  it  may  be  founded  on  the  elegancies  or 
conventionalities  of  life,  on  the  vices  and  wrongs  of  a 
wholly  artificial  system  of  society.  But  tragedy  can 
only  take  root  in  the  deepest  and  most  earnest  realities 
of  a  nature  common  to  us  all,  the  same  CEdipus  and 
Othello.  The  master  of  pathos  must  be  minute  and 
circumstantial,  he  must  tell  us  all  he  knows,  and 
depend  on  a  cumulative  effect ;  while  for  the  higher 
tragic  there  are  many  things  too  real  and  common- 
place ; — the  naked  skeleton,  which  leaves  the  imagina- 
tion free  to  work,  is  more  effective  and  apalling, — the 
undefinable  shadow,  whose  presence  we  feel,  but 
toward  which  we  dare  not  turn  our  heads.  Pathos 
clings  close  to  the  body,  and  death  is  one  of  its 
favorite  and  most  moving  themes.  The  interest  of 
tragedy  is  one  with  life,  and  touches  us  through  our 
sense  of  immortality.  Tragedy  has  to  do  with  the 
deepest  and  holiest  part  of  our  nature,  and  breathes 
over  strings  which  echo  dimly  far  away  in  the  infinite 
and  eternal.  It  lifts  us  above  the  pent-up  horizon  of 
the  body,  and  unfolds  to  us  wider  and  more  spiritual 
relations,  so  that  we  wonder  not  when  Prometheus 
calls  upon  the  sea  for  sympathy,  or  when  Lear  finds  a 


THOMAS  MIDDLETON.  251 

luimauity  in  the  elements,  and  in  tliat  gray  heaven 
which,  like  himself,  was  I'ull  of  years.  Disease, 
poverty,  death,  "which  tears  away  from  us  the  body  of 
those  whom  we  had  loved, — that  body  round  which 
our  spirits  had  twined  themselves,  hiding  it  with  their 
luxuriant  leaves  and  tendrils,  till  we  believed  that  it 
could  not  but  partake  somewhat  of  that  deathless 
essence, — these  and  many  more  woes  is  our  frail 
humanity  incident  to ;  but  there  are  anguishes  of  our 
immortal  nature  deeper  than  life  and  death  ; — Laocoon 
struggles  with  the  entwining  folds  of  destiny,  doubts 
that  hurry  to  and  fro  in  bewildered  hopelessness, — 
loss  of  faith  in  good,  and  seemingly  forced  belief  in 
an  overruling  evil,  when  Truth  shows  but  as  a  painted 
mask  over  the  stony  face  of  Falsehood,  when  a  damp 
mist  of  despair  swathes  the  beautiful  in  its  icy  shroud, 
and  Love,  which  we  had  deemed  unchangeable,  hides 
its  eyes  from  us, — and  these  belong  to  Tragedy,  which 
always  shows  us  that  the  finite  can  never  be  an  inde- 
pendent existence,  but  is  ever  overruled  by  the  infinite, 
to  which  it  is  knit  by  unseen  but  never-to-be-sundered 
bands.  To  write  a  good  tragedy,  therefore,  demands, 
if  not  the  greatest  of  poets,  certainly  some  of  the 
highest  elements  of  one. 

The  i)l()t  of  "  The  Changeling,"  the  most  powerful 
of  Middleton's  tragedies,  is  briefly  this.  DeFlores,  a 
deformed  and  ugly  villain,  loves  Beatrice,  the  heroine 
of  the  })lay,  who  has  an  unconquerable  loathing  of 
him.  She  has  been  betrothed  by  Yermandero,  her 
father,  to  Alonzo  de  Piracquo,  a  noble  gentleman,  but 
whom  she  cannot  love,  having  already  given  all  her 
heart  to  Alsemero.     DeFlores  first  tempts  her  to  the 


252  THE  PLAYS  OF 

murder  of  Piracquo,  and  then  offers  himself  as  the 
instrument  of  that  liideous  guilt.  The  murder  is  suc- 
cessfully accomplished  without  the  knoM'ledge  of 
Alsemero,  and  Beatrice,  no  obstacle  now  remaining,  is 
married  to  him.  On  the  day  of  her  wedding  she 
deems  it  high  time  to  get  DeFlores  out  of  the  way, 
but  he  refuses  any  other  reward  than  the  satiation  of 
his  hellish  passion  for  Beatrice,  to  the  gratification  of 
which  he  compels  her  by  a  threat  of  disclosing  all  to 
her  husband.  Alsemero  at  length  is  led  to  suspect  his 
wife,  the  whole  ghastly  story  is  laid  bare,  and  De 
Flores,  after  slaying  his  unwilling  paramour,  prevents 
the  revenging  steel  of  Tomaso,  Piracquo's  brother,  by 
stabbing  himself  to  the  heart.  The  tragedy  takes  its 
name  from  the  chief  character  in  an  under-plot,  which, 
as  is  usually  the  case  in  the  old  drama,  has  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  the  action  of  the  piece. 

In  the  opening  of  the  play,  Beatrice  thus  strongly 
expresses  her  aversion  to  DeFlores : 

"  'Tis  my  infirmity  ; 


Nor  can  I  other  reason  render  you 

Than  his  or  hers  of  some  particular  thing 

They  must  abandon  as  a  deadly  pt>ison, 

"Which  to  a  thousand  other  tastes  were  wholesome ; 

Such  to  mine  eyes  is  that  same  fellow  there, 

The  same  that  report  speaks  of  the  basilisk." 

It  was  a  fine  thought  in  our  author  thus  to  give  a 
dim  foreshadowing  of  that  bloody  eclipse  of  her  better 
nature  which  Beatrice  was  to  suffer  from  DeFlores. 
It  is  always  an  unacknowledged  sense  of  our  own 
W'eaknesses  that  gives  birth  to  those  vague  feelings 
and  presentiments  which  warn  us  of  an  approaching 


THOMAS  MIDDLETOX.  253 

calamity,  ami  wlien  tlie  blow  has  fallen,  we  poothe  our 
wountled  self-respect  by  calling  it  Fate.  We  cheat 
our  sterner  reason  into  a  belief  that  some  higher  power 
has  interfered  to  bring  about  that  blight  in  us  whose 
steady  growth  always  circles  outward  from  some  hid- 
den meanness  in  our  own  souls.  Our  woes  are  our 
own  offspring,  and  we  feed  our  hungry  brood,  as  was 
once  fabled  of  the  pelican,  with  our  best  heart's  blood ; 
— alas  !  they  never  become  fledged,  like  hers,  and  Hy 
away  from  us,  but  raven  till  the  troubled  fountain 
runs  dry !  The  shafts  of  destiny  never  rend  through 
buckler  and  breast-plate,  but  reach  our  hearts  with  an 
awful  and  deadly  certainty,  through  any  chink  in  our 
armor  which  has  been  left  unbraced  by  our  own  sin  or 
recklessness.  Beatrice  would  make  us  believe  that 
she  has  a  natural  antipathy  to  DeFlores.  But  antip- 
athies are  only  so  many  proofs  of  something  wanting 
in  ourselves,  whereby  we  are  hindered  of  that  perfect 
sympathy  with  all  things,  for  which  we  were  created, 
and  without  which  that  life,  which  should  be  as  liar- 
monious  as  the  soft  consent  of  love,  becomes  harsh  and 
jarring.  The  thought  of  DeFlores  is  to  Beatrice 
what  the  air-drawn  dagger  was  to  Macbeth ;  she  fore- 
sees in  her  om'u  heart  the  crime  yet  uncommitted,  and 
trembles  at  the  weapon  even  while  she  stretches  her 
quivering  hand  to  grasp  it.  A  terrible  fascination 
seems  to  draw  us  on  to  the  doing  of  ill  deeds,  the  fore- 
consciousness  whereof,  graciously  implanted  in  our 
natures  by  God  as  a  safeguard,  we  misconstrue  into 
the  promptings  of  our  evil  demon.  We  brood  over 
the  gloomy  thought  in  an  agony  of  fierce  enjoyment. 
Infidels  to  our  own  holy  impulses,  Ave  blaspheme  the 


254  THE  PLAYS  OF 

eternal  benignity  -which  broods  for  ever  on  its  chosen 
uest  in  the  soul  of  man,  giving  life  to  all  beauty  and 
all  strength.  We  go  apart  from  the  society  of  men 
that  we  may  hold  converse  with  our  self-iuvoked  and 
self-created  tempter.  Always  at  our  backs  it  dogs  us, 
looming  every  hour  higher  and  higher,  till  the  damp 
gloom  of  its  shadow  hems  us  wholly  in.  We  feel  it 
behind  us  like  the  fearful  presence  of  a  huge  hand 
stretched  forth  to  gripe  us  and  force  us  to  its  wither- 
ing will.  One  by  one  the  dark,  vague  fingers  close 
around  us,  and  at  last  we  render  ourselves  to  its 
fancied  bidding  in  a  gush  of  wild  despair  which 
vibrates  in  us  with  a  horrid  delight.'^ 

We  sign  our  deeds  of  sale  to  the  fiend  with  a 
feather  self-torn  from  our  own  wings.  It  is  the  curse 
of  Adam  in  us  that  we  can  no  longer  interpret  the 
tongue  of  angels,  and  too  often  mistake  the  tender  fore- 
thought of  our  good  spirit  concerning  us,  for  the  foul 
promptings  of  an  evil  demon  which  we  would  fain 
believe  is  permitted  to  have  dominion  over  us.  In 
another  place  Beatrice  says  of  DeFlores: 

^^  T  never  see  this  fellow  but  I  think 

Of  some  harm  towards  me ;  danger  s  in  my  mind  still; 
I  scarce  leave  trembling  for  an  hour  after." 

Here  we  have  a  still  clearer  omen  of  what  is  to 
follow. 

*  We  need  only  refer  to  the  masterly  illustration  of  tliis  thought 
in  Mr.  Dana's  "  Paul  Felton,"  a  tale  of  wonderful  depth  and  power. 
The  spiritual  meaning  of  the  witches  in  Macbeth  is  doubtless  this 
tampering  of  a  soul  with  its  warnings  against,  which  it  mistakes 
for  ominous  suggestions  to,  evil. 


THOMAS  MIDDLETON.  255 

Our  poet  drops  a  few  "  lilies  in  the  mouth  of  his 
Tartarus,"  but  there  is  ever  a  dark  sprig  of  night- 
shade auioiig  them.  lu  the  scene  we  next  quote,  the 
bloody  dawning  of  the  thought  of  Piracquo's  murder 
in  the  soul  of  Beatrice  blots  out  luridly  the  tender 
morning-star  of  love  which  still  trembles  there, 
making  us  feel  yet  more  thrillingly  the  swiftly  near- 
ing  horrors  which  it  betokens.  The  scene  is  between 
Beatrice  and  Alsemero. 

"  Beat.     I  have  within  mine  eyes  all  my  desires  : 
Eequests,  tha^  holy  prayers  asc-end  heaven  for, 
And  bring  tliein  down  to  furnish  our  defects, 
Come  not  more  sweet  to  our  necessities 
Than  thou  unto  my  wishes. 

"  Ah.     We  are  so  like 
In  our  expressions,  lady,  that  unless  I  borrow 
The  same  words,  I  shall  never  find  their  equals. 

"■^  Beat.     How  happy  were  this  meeting,  this  embrace, 
If  it  were  free  from  envy  !  this  poor  kiss. 
It  has  an  enemy,  a  hateful  one, 
That  wishes  poison  to  it :  how  well  were  I  now, 
If  there  were  none  such  name  known  as  Piracquo, 
Nor  no  such  tie  as  the  command  of  parents ! 
I  should  be  too  much  blessed. 

"  Ah.     One  good  service 
Woidd  strike  olfboth  your  fears,  and  I'll  go  near  it,  too, 
Since  you  are  so  distressed,  remove  the  cause. 
The  command  ceases ;  so  tliere's  two  fears  blown  out 
With  one  and  the  same  blast. 

"  Bexd.     Pray,  let  me  find  you,  sir  : 
What  might  that  service  be,  so  strangely  happy? 

"  Ah.     The  honorablest  piece  about  man,  valor; 
I'll  send  a  challenge  to  Piracquo  instantly." 


256  THE  PLAYS  OF 

With  what  exquisite  naturalness  is  this  drawn! 
The  heart  of  Beatrice,  afraid  of  itself,  M'ould  fain 
cheat  itself  into  the  belief  that  Alsemero  gave  it  that 
dark  hint  wliich  its  own  guilty  wishes  had  already 
forestalled.     To  return — 

"Beat.     How?  call  you  that  extinguishing  of  fear, 
When  'tis  the  only  way  to  keep  it  flaming  ? 
Are  not  you  ventured  in  the  action, 
That's  all  my  joys  and  comforts?  pray,  no  more,  sir :  " 

Though  she  seemingly  rejects  the  offer,  yet  she  goes 
on  weighing  the  risk  in  her  own  mind, 

"Say  you're  prevailed, you're  danger's  and  not  mine  then; 
The  law  would  claim  you  from  me,  or  obscurity 
Be  made  the  grave  to  bury  you  alive. 
I'm  glad  these  thoughts  come  forth;  oh,  keep  not  one 
Of  this  condition,  sir !  here  was  a  course 
Found  to  bring  sorrow  on  her  way  to  death ; 
The  tears  would  ne'er  had  dried  till  dust  had  choked  them. 
Blood-guiltiness  becomes  a  fouler  visage  ; — '' 

'  Thus  she  works  herself  up  to  a  pitch  of  horror  at 
the  foncied  guilt  of  Alsemero,  and  with  half-conscious 
cunning  renders  her  own  plot,  (which  she  now  for  the 
first  time  acknowledges  to  herself,)  less  full  of  loath- 
someness.    She  continues  (aside) : 

"  And  now  1  think  on  one ;  I  was  to  blame, 
I've  marred  so  good  a  market  with  my  scorn  ; 
It  had  been  done,  questionless :  the  ugliest  creature 
Creation  framed  for  some  use  ;  yet  to  see 
I  could  not  mark  so  much  where  it  should  be !  " 

How  full  of  doubt  and  trembling  hesitation  is  the 
broken  structure  of  the  verse,  too,  and  how  true  to 


THOMAS  MIDDLETON.  257 

nature  tlic  lie  in  the  last  line  and  a  half,  which  she 
will  persist  in  telling  herself. 

'M/s.     Lady—" 

But  she  does  not  hear  him ;  she  is  too  fearfully- 
intent  with  watching  a  murder  even  now  adoing  in 
lier  own  heart. 

"  Bcni.  (aside)     Whj',  men  of  art  make  much  of  poison, 
Keep  one  to  expel  anotlier;  where  wius  my  art '!" 

The  scene  which  follows,  between  Beatrice  and  De 
Flores,  is  a  very  powerful  one.  Not  powerful  in  the 
same  degree  with  Lear  and  Othello,  but  yet  in  the 
same  kind,  for  as  much  power  is  needful  to  the 
making  of  a  violet  as  of  an  oak.  It  is  too  Ioup-  for 
us  to  copy  the  whole  of  it.  She  tries  to  persuade  her- 
self that  DeFlores  is  not  so  hideous  to  her  after  all, 
like  a  child  talking  aloud  in  the  dark  to  relieve  its 
terrors. 

"  When  we  are  used 
To  a  hard  face  it  is  not  so  impleasing; 
It  mends  still  in  opinion,  hourly  mends, 

I  see  it  by  experience 

Hardness  becomes  the  visage  of  a  man  well ; 
It  argues  service,  resolution,  manhood, 
If  cause  were  of  employment." 

DeFlores  is  led  on  gradually  to  the  desired  end,  and 
when  he  has  sworn  to  devote  himself  to  whatever  ser- 
vice she  may  lay  upon  him,  she  exclaims,  not  daring 
to  hear  the  name  of  "  her  murdered  man  "  on  her  lips 
till  emboldened  by  slow  degrees  : 

17 


258  THE  PLAYS  OF 

"  Then  take  him  to  thy  fury  ! 
"  JDeF.     I  thirst  for  him  ! 
"  Beat.     Alonzo  de  Piracquo ! " 

DeFlores  murders  Piracquo,  and  brings  one  of  his 
fingers,  with  a  ring  upon  it,  as  a  token  of  the  deed  to 
Beatrice.     She  is  startled  at  sight  of  him. 

"  Beat.     DeFlores  I 
"  DeF.    Lady.?  " 

She  will  not  trust  her  tongue  with  anything  more 
than  an  allusion  to  what  she  so  eagerly  longed  for. 

"  Beat.     Thy  looks  promise  cheerfully. 

"  DeF,     All  things  are  answerable,  time,  circumstance, 
Your  wishes,  and  my  service. 

"  Beat.     Is  IT  done,  then  ? 

"  DeF.    Piracquo  is  no  more. 

"  Beat.    My  joys  start  at  mine  eyes  ;  our  sweefst  delights 
Are  evei-more  born  weeping. 

"  DeF.    I  have  a  token  for  you. 

"  Beat.     For  me  ? 

"  DeF.     But  it  was  sent  somewhat  unwillingly : 
I  could  not  get  the  ring  without  the  finger. 

"  Beat.     Bless  me,  what  hast  thou  done  !  " 

Exclaims  the  horror-stricken  Beatrice,  the  woman 
reviving  again  in  her.  She  had  hardened  herself  to 
the  abstract  idea  of  murder,  but  revolts  at  this  dread- 
ful material  token  of  it. 

"DeF.    Why,  is  that  more 
Than  killing  the  whole  man  ?     I  cut  his  heart-strings." 

How  finely  is  the  contemptuous  coolness  of  De 
Flores,  the  villain  by  calculation,  set  off  by  the 
shrinking  dread  of  Beatrice,  whose  guilt  is  the  child 


TH02IAS  MIDDLETON.  259 

of  a  ravished  intercourse  between  her  passions  and  her 
affections.  The  sight  of  the  ring  carries  her  and  us 
back  to  the  sweet  days  of  her  iunocency,  and  the 
picture  is  complete. 

"  'Tis  the  first  token  my  father  made  me  send  him." 

She  sighs,  remembering  the  calm  purity  from  which 
she  has  fallen,  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  with  the  true 
cunning  of  a  guiltiness  which  only  half  repents,  strives 
to  palliate  the  sin  of  whose  terrible  consciousness  she 
must  evermore  be  the  cringing  bondslave,  by  thinking 
of  her  father's  tyranny.  The  horror  Avhich  a  mur- 
derer feels  of  the  physical  fact  of  murder  and  the 
dread  Avhich  creeps  over  him  from  the  cold  corpse  of 
his  victim,  exemplified  by  Beatrice  in  the  above  quota- 
tion, seem,  at  first  thought,  strange  phenomena  in 
nature.  But  are  they  not  in  truth  unwitting  recogni- 
tions of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  as  if  the  wrong 
done  were  wholly  to  the  body  and  had  no  terrors  for 
the  spiritual  part  of  our  being?  This  feeling  may  be 
well  called  bodily  remorse,  being  clearly  of  a  grosser 
and  more  outward  nature  than  that  strong  agony 
which  shakes  us  inwardly  when  we  have  done  a 
murder  upon  the  soul  of  our  brother,  and  have  been 
marked  on  our  foreheads  as  spiritual  Cains,  by  in- 
gratitude, hypocrisy,  mistrust,  want  of  faith,  or  any 
other  lie  against  God.* 

The  remainder  of  this  scene  between  DeFIores  and 

*  This  bodily  feeling  is  painted  with  a  terrible  truth  and  dis- 
tinctness of  coloring  in  Hood's  "  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram,"  and 
■with  no  less  strength  by  the  powerful  imagination  of  Mr.  Poe,  in 
his  storv  of  the  "  Tell-tale  Heart." 


2G0  THE  PLAYS  OF 

Beatrice  is  all  of  it  striking,  but  we  have  not  room  to 
quote  it  all.  DeFlores  tells  her  the  loathsome  price  at 
which  she  has  bought  Piracquo's  death  and  she  ex- 
claims: 

"  Why  't  is  impossible  thou  canst  be  so  wicked, 
Or  shelter  such  a  cunning  cruelty, 
To  make  his  death  the  murderer  of  my  honor ! 
Thy  language  is  so  bold  and  vicious, 
I  cannot  see  which  way  1  can  forgive  it 
With  any  modesty." 

No  guilt  can  ever  sear  out  of  a  woman's  soul  the 
essential  tenderness  and  purity  of  its  nature.  Dese- 
crated as  its  dwelling  may  be  by  infamy  and  shame, 
with  meek  and  silent  forgiveness  it  comes  home  again 
to  its  ruined  cell,  and  gently  effaces,  as  far  as  it  can, 
tlie  ruthless  traces  of  the  destroyer.  Alas !  where  the 
celestial  whiteness  of  woman's  nature  is  most  be- 
dimmed,  she  stands  most  in  need  of  the  uplifting 
sympathy  of  her  sisters,  who  only  give  her  scorn  or  a 
distant  pity,  which  makes  her  but  the  more  an  outcast. 
How  more  ennobling  and  worthy  of  us  it  is  to  seek  out 
and  cherish  the  soiled  remnant  of  an  angelic  nature 
in  the  lepers  of  sin  against  whom  the  hard  world  has 
shut  its  iron  doors,  than  to  worship  it  (which  we  are 
not  over-ready  to  do)  where  it  shines  unclouded  in 
the  noble  and  the  wise. 

This  modesty  of  Beatrice  is  one  of  the  most  touch- 
ingly  natural  traits  in  her  character.  DeFlores 
spurned  it  as  he  would  a  worthless  flower. 

"  Pish  !  you  forget  yourself ; 
A  woman  dipped  in  blood  and  talk  of  modesty ! 
"  Beat.    O,  misery  of  sin !  would  I'd  been  bound 


THOMAS  MIDDLETON.  261 

Perpetually  unto  my  living  hale 

In  tliat  Piracquo  than  to  licar  these  words ! 

Think  hut  upon  the  distance  that  creation 

Set  'twixt  tliy  hlood  and  mine,  and  keep  thee  there." 

She  shriuks  behind  her  pride,  but  the  next  speech 
of  DeFlores  drives  her  forth  from  her  flimsy  shelter. 
The  speech  is  a  very  vigorous  one  and  full  of  moral 
truth. 

"  DeF.     Look  but  into  your  conscience,  read  me  there, 
'T  is  a  true  book  ;  you'll  find  me  there  your  equal: 
Pish  !  fly  not  to  your  birth,  but  settle  you 
In  ivhnt  (he  act  /ta,s  made  you,  you're  no  more  now  ; 
You  must  forget  your  parentage  to  me ; 
You  are  the  deed's  creature;  by  that  name 
You  lost  your  first  condition,  and  I  challenge  you, 
As  peace  and  innocency  have  turned  you  out^ 
And  made  you  one  icith  me. 

"  Beat.     With  thee,  foul  villain  ? 

"DeF.     Yes,  my  fair  murderess,  do  you  urge  me?" 

Yes,  there  are  no  bounds  of  caste,  no  grades  of 
rank,  in  sin.  If  we  may  be  born  again  in  virtue,  so 
also  may  we  be  in  sin,  and  we  bear  some  trace  of  the 
hideous  features  of  our  second  mother  to  our  grave. 

A  very  striking  and  forcible  line  is  put  into  the 
mouth  of  DeFlores  when  he  first  meets  Tomaso, 
Piracquo's  brother,  after  the  murder. 

"I'd  fain  get  off,  this  man's  not  for  my  company, 
I  smell  his  brother's  blood  when  I  come  near  him. 

"  Tom.     Come  hither,  kind  and  true  one ;  I  remember 
My  brother  loved  thee  well. 

"  DeF.     O,  purely,  dear  sir ! 
Methinks  I'm  now  again  akilling  him, 
He  brings  it  so  fresh  to  me.     lAside.']  " 


262  THE  PLAYS  OF 

In  another  scene  between  Beatrice  and  DeFlores  she 
is  made  to  say  something  which  is  full  of  touching 
patlios.  She  suspects  her  maid  of  having  betrayed 
her  to  her  husband.     DeFlores  asks, 

"  Who  would  trust  a  waiting-woman  ? 
"  Beat.     1  must  trust  smnebody." 

How  truly  is  here  expressed  the  wilderness  of  bleak 
loneliness  into  which  guilt  drives  those  it  possesses, 
forcing  them,  when  that  sweet  spring  of  peacefulness, 
which  bubbles  up  so  freshly  in  the  open  confidingness 
of  joy,  is  cut  0%  to  seek  a  sympathy  in  their  degrada- 
tion, and  in  the  bewildering  darkness  of  doubt  and 
suspicion,  to  trust  some  one,  even  though  it  be  only 
with  the  story  of  their  shame.  In  its  lowest  and 
most  fallen  estate,  the  spirit  of  man  cannot  shake  off 
its  inborn  feeling  of  brotherhood,  which  whispers  to  it 
to  seek  that  for  sympathy  which  in  happier  days  it  was 
perhaps  too  slow  to  grant.  It  is  sorrow  which  teaches 
us  most  nearly  how  full  of  sustainment  and  help  we 
may  be  to  our  fellows,  and  how  much  we  in  our  turn 
stand  in  need  of  them ;  and  that  when  once  selfishness 
has  rusted  apart  that  chain  which  binds  us  so  closely 
to  man,  it  has  also  broken  the  supporting  tie  which 
links  us  with  uplifting  trustfulness  to  the  all-enfolding 
sympathy'of  God. 

In  the  last  act  Beatrice  confesses  her  crime  to  her 
husband,  and  he  cries  bitterly : 

"  O,  thou  art  all  deformed ! 
"  Beat.     Forget  not,  sir, 
It  for  your  sake  was  done ;  shall  greater  dangers 
Make  thee  less  welcome  ? 


THOMAS  MIDDLETON.  263 

"  Ah.     0,  thou  shoul(rst  have  gone 
A  thousand  leagues  about  to  have  avoided 
This  dangerous  bridge  of  blood  !  here  we  are  lost !  " 

There  is  a  sternly  truthful  naturalness  in  these 
words  of  Alsemcro.  To  a  soul  highly  wrought  up, 
language  resolves  itself  into  its  original  elements,  and 
the  relations  and  resemblances  of  things  present  them- 
selves to  it  rather  than  the  things  themselves,  so  that 
the  language  of  passion,  in  which  conventionality  is 
overwhelmed  by  the  bursting  forth  of  the  original 
savage  nature  is  always  metaphoriciil."'^ 

The  tragic  depth  of  the  climax  of  this  drama  can 
only  be  thoroughly  felt  in  a  perusal  of  the  whole. 
We  can  only  quote  a  few  sentences.  There  is  much 
pathos  in  what  the  broken-hearted  Beatrice  says  to  her 
father,  as  she  is  dying. 

"  O,  come  not  near  me,  sir,  I  shall  defile  you  ! 
I  am  that  of  your  blood  was  taken  from  you 
For  your  better  health  ;  look  no  more  upon  it, 
But  cast  it  to  the  ground  regardlessly, 
Let  the  common  sewer  take  it  from  distinction. 
Beneath  the  stars,  upon  yon  meteor 
Ever  hung  my  fate,  'mongst  things  corruptible  ; 

{Poinfing  to  DeFlores.] 
I  ne'er  could  pluck  it  from  him  ;  my  loathing 
Was  prophet  to  the  rest,  but  ne'er  believed : 
Mine  honor  fell  with  him,  and  now  my  life." 

The  concluding  words  of  the  play  which  Alsemero 

*  Coleridge's  eloquent  reasoning  in  opposition  to  this  theory 
never  seemed  to  us  at  all  satisfactory,  and  the  very  instances  he 
adduces  are,  to  our  mind,  against  him.  See  his  "Apologetic  Pre- 
face," which,  however  unconvincing,  is  certainly  a  magnificent 
siTecimen  of  acute  and  thorough  analysis. 


264  THE  PLAYS  OF 

addresses  to  his  bereaved  father-in-law  are  fragrant 
with  beautiful  and  sincere  humanity. 

"  Sir,  you  have  yet  a  son's  duty  living, 
Please  you,  accept  it ;  let  that  your  sorrow, 
As  it  goes  from  your  eye,  go  from  your  heart ; 
Man  and  his  sorrow  at  the  grave  must  part. 
All  we  can  do  to  comfort  one  another, 
To  stay  a  brother's  sorrow  for  a  brother, 
To  dry  a  child  from  the  kind  father's  eyes, 
It  is  to  no  purpose,  it  rather  multiplies : 
Your  only  smiles  have  power  to  cause  re-live 
The  dead  again,  or  in  their  rooms  to  give 
Brother  a  new  brother,  father  a  child ; 
If  these  appear,  all  griefs  are  reconciled." 

Tlie  dramatic  power  of  Middleton  is  rather  of  the 
suggestive  kind  than  of  that  elaborately  minute  and 
finished  order,  which  can  trust  wholly  to  its  own  com- 
pleteness for  effect.  Only  Shakespeare  can  so  "  on 
horror's  head  horrors  accumulate  "  as  to  make  the  o'er- 
charged  heart  stand  aghast  and  turn  back  with 
trerabliug  haste  from  the  drear  abyss  in  which  it  was 
groping  bewildered.  Middleton  has  shown  his  deep 
knowledge  of  art  and  nature  by  that  strict  apprecia- 
tion of  his  own  weakness,  which  is  the  hardest  wisdom 
to  gain,  and  Avhich  can  only  be  the  fruit  of  an  earnest, 
willing,  and  humble  study  in  his  own  heart,  of  those 
primitive  laws  of  spirit  which  lie  at  the  bottom  of  all 
hearts.  It  is  much  easier  to  feel  our  own  strength 
than  our  Avant  of  it ;  indeed,  a  feeling  of  the  one 
blinds  us  to  the  other.  Middleton  is  wise  in  choosing 
rather  to  give  mysterious  hints  which  the  mind  may 
follow  out,  than  to  strive  to  lead  the  imagination, 
which  is  most  powerful  in  conjuring  up  images  of 


THOMAS  MIDDLETON.  265 

horror,  beyond  where  he  could  guide  it  with  bold  and 
unwavering  certainty.  With  electric  sympathy  we 
feel  the  bewilderment  of  our  guide's  mind  through  the 
hand  with  which  he  leads  us,  and  refuse  to  go  further, 
when,  if  left  to  ourselves,  our  very  doubt  would  have 
enticed  us  onward. 

To  show  our  author's  more  graceful  and  delicate 
powers,  we  copy  the  following  from  another  tragedy : 

"  How  near  am  I  now  to  a  hapi>iness 
The  earth  exceeds  not !  not  another  like  it ; 
The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precious 
'     As  the  concealed  comforts  of  man 

Locked  up  in  woman's  love.     I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessings  when  I  come  but  near  the  house : 
What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth  1 
The  violet-bed's  not  sweeter.     Honest  wedlock 
Is  like  a  banqueting  house  built  in  a  garden 
On  which  the  spring's  chaste  flowers  take  delight 
To  cast  tlieir  modest  odors  ;  when  base  lust 
"With  all  her  powders,  paintings,  and  best  pride, 
Is  but  a  fair  house  built  by  a  ditch  side. 

2s"ow  for  a  welcome 

Able  to  draw  men's  envies  upon  man  ; 
A  kiss  now  that  shall  hang  upon  my  lip 
As  sweet  as  morning  dew  upon  a  rose, 
And  full  as  long." 

Another  from  the  same  play  : 

"O,  hast  thou  left  me,  then,  Bianca,  utterly? 
Bianca,  now  I  miss  thee !     O,  return 
And  save  the  faith  of  woman  !  I  ne'er  felt 
The  loss  of  thee  till  now  ;  'tis  an  affliction 
Of  greater  weight  than  youth  was  made  to  bear; 
As  if  a  punishment  of  after-life 
Were  fallen  upon  man  here,  so  new  it  is 
To  flesh  and  blood  so  strange,  so  insupportable  1 
o    .     .     .     .     Can'st  thou  forget 

UKIVEESIIT 


266  THE  PLAYS  OF 

The  dear  pains  my  love  took  ?  how  it  has  watched 
Whole  nights  together,  in  all  weathers,  for  thee, 
Yet  stood  in  heart  more  merry  than  the  tempest 
That  sung  about  mine  ears  ?  " 

We  shall  copy  a  few  scattered  passages  and  con- 
clude : 

THE   SINS    OF   GREAT    MEN. 
"  Every  sin  thou  commit'st  shows  like  a  flame 
Upon  a  mountain  ;  'tis  seen  far  about, 
And,  with  a  big  wind  made  of  popular  breath, 
The  sparkles  fly  through  cities ;  here  one  takes, 
Another  catches  there,  and  in  short  time. 
Waste  all  to  cinders." 

Our  author's  aptness  in  comparison  is  striking.     He 
says  of  the  shameful  deed  of  a  great  man : 

"  Great  men  are  never  sound  men  after  it, 
//  leaves  some  ache  or  other  m  their  names  slill, 
Which  their  posterity  feels  at  every  weather." 

CHARITY. 
"  You  should  love  those  you  are  not  tied  to  love ; 
That's  the  right  trial  of  a  woman's  charity." 

HONOR. 
"The  fame  that  a  man  wins  himself  is  best; 
That  he  may  call  his  own.     Honors  put  to  him 
Make  him  no  more  a  man  than  his  clothes  do, 
And  are  as  soon  ta'en  off." 

WANT   OF    NOBLENESS. 

"O,  what  vile  prisons 
Make  we  our  bodies  to  our  immortal  souls  !  " 

SENSE  OF  GUILT. 
"  Still  my  adulterous  guilt  hovers  aloft. 
And  with  her  black  wings  beats  down  all  my  prayers 
Ere  they  be  half-way  up." 


THOMAS  MIDDLETON.  267 

PRUDENCE. 
"  Wisely  to  fear  is  to  be  free  from  fear." 

PATIENCE. 

"  Patience,  my  lord  :  why,  'tis  the  soul  of  peace ; 
Of  all  the  virtues  'tis  nearest  kin  to  heaven ; 
It  makes  men  look  like  gods.     The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  ivas  a  sufferer 
A  soft,  meek,  patient ,  humble,  tranquil  spirit, 
The  first  true  (jentleman  that  ever  breathed. 
The  stock  of  patience  tlien  cannot  be  poor. 
All  it  desires  it  has  ;  what  monarch  more  ? 


'Tis  the  perpetual  prisoner's  liberty. 

His  walks  and  orchards ;  'tis  the  bond-slave's  freedom, 

And  makes  him  seem  proud  of  each  iron  chain 

As  though  he  wore  it  more  for  state  than  pain ; 

It  is  the  beggar's  music,  and  thus  sings. 

Although  our  bodies  beg,  onr  soids  are  kings  .' 

O,  my  dread  liege,  it  is  the  sap  of  bliss, 

Rears  us  aloft,  makes  men  and  angels  kiss." 

A  HAPPY  MAN. 

"He  that  in  his  cofRn  is  richer  than  before. 
He  that  counts  youth  his  sword  and  age  his  staff, 
He  whose  right  hand  carves  his  own  epitaph." 

Here  is  the  sweetest  description  of  the  passage  of 
time,  expressed  by  an  outward  reference,  that  we  recol- 
lect ever  to  have  seen. 

"  The  moon  hath  through  her  bow  scarce  drawn  to  the  head, 
Like  to'  twelve  silver  arrows,  all  the  months, 
Since,—" 

TWILIGHT. 

"  I  come,  dear  love. 
To  take  my  last  fiirewell,  fitting  this  hour, 
AVhich  nor  bright  day  Avill  claim,  nor  pitchy  night. 
An  hour  fit  to  part  conjoined  souls." 


268  THE  PLAYS  OF 


THE    WORLD. 


"  Stoop  thou  to  the  world,  't  will  on  thy  bosom  tread ; 
It  stoops  to  thee  if  thou  advance  thy  head." 

The  following  is  a  revelation  of  the  spiritual  world, 
full  of  truth  and  beauty.  Men  whose  material  part 
predominates  in  them  are  afraid  of  spirits ;  but  a  body 
walkinof  the  earth  after  its  heavenly  tenant  has  left  it 
is  a  more  awful  sight  to  spiritual  minds. 

"  My  son  was  dead ;  whoe'er  outlives  his  virtues 
Is  a  dead  man ;  for  when  you  hear  of  spirits 
That  walk  in  real  bodies,  to  the  amaze 
And  cold  astonishment  of  such  as  meet  them, 

those  are  men  of  vicesf 

"Who  nothing  have  but  what  is  visible, 
And  so,  by  consequence,  they  have  no  souls." 

THE    BODY. 

"  There's  but  this  wall  betwixt  you  and  destruction, 
When  you  are  at  strongest,  and  but  poor  thin  clay." 

OVER-CUNNING. 

"  Grow  not  too  cunning  for  your  soul,  good  brother." 

There  is  a  simplicity  and  manly  directness  in  our 
old  writers  of  tragedy,  which  comes  to  us  with  the 
more  freshness  in  a  time  so  conventional  as  our  own. 
In  their  day,  if  tlie  barrier  between  castes  was  more 
marked  than  it  is  now,  that  between  hearts  was  less  so. 
They  were  seers,  indeed,  using  reverently  that  rare 
gift  of  inward  sight  which  God  had  blessed  them 
with,  and  not  daring  to  blaspheme  the  divinity  of 
Beauty  by  writing  of  Avhat  they  had  not  seen  and 
truly  felt  in  their  own  hearts  and  lives.  It  is  one  of 
the  refinements  of  a  more  modern  school  which  teaches 


THOMAS  MIDDLETON.  269 

artists  to  open  f.Jicir  mouths  and  shut  their  eyes,  as  chil- 
dren are  playfully  told  to,  and  wait  for  some  myste- 
rious jiower  to  mcike  them  icise.  They  wrote  from 
warm,  beating  hearts,  not  from  a  pitiful,  dry  pericar- 
dium of  fashion  or  taste,  "formed  after  the  purest 
models."  They  became  worthy  to  lead,  by  having  too 
much  faith  in  nature  to  follow  any  but  her.  We  find 
in  them  le&sons  for  to-day,  as  fresh  as  when  they  were 
spoken,  showing  us  that  poetry  is  true  for  ever;  that 
the  spiritual  presences  which  haunted  their  lonely 
hours  with  images  of  beauty  and  precious  inward 
promptings  to  truth  and  love  still  walk  the  earth, 
seeking  communion  with  all  who  are  free  enough  and 
pure  enough  to  behold  them. 

In  our  day  the  accursed  hunger  after  gold,  and  the 
no  less  accursed  repletion  of  it,  which  brings  with  it  a 
stagnation  of  life,  and  ends  in  an  ossification  of  the 
whole  heart,  have  rendered  us  less  fit  for  the  reception 
and  proper  cherishing  of  the  wondrous  gifts  of  song. 
But  that  the  day  of  poetry  has  gone  by  is  no  more 
true  than  that  the  day  of  the  soul  has  gone  by,  for 
they  were  born,  and  must  live  and  die,  together.  The 
soul  mounts  higher  and  higher,  and  its  horizon  widens 
from  age  to  age.  Poesy  also  grows  wiser  as  she  grows 
older.  Poetry  can  never  be  all  written.  There  is 
more  in  the  heart  of  man  than  any  the  wisest  poet 
has  ever  seen  there, — more  in  the  soul  than  any  has 
ever  guessed.  Our  age  may  have  no  great  poets,  for 
there  are  some  who  have  but  just  now  gone  forth  into 
the  silence,  some  who  yet  linger  on  the  doubtful 
brink,  and  there  are  successions  in  poesy  as  in  nature; 
pines  spring  up  where  oaks  are  cut  down, — the  lyrical 


270        THE  PLA  YS  OF  THOMAS  MIDDLETON. 

follows  the  epic.  But  of  whatever  kind  or  degree, 
there  will  ever  yet  be  some  poets.  They  are  needed  as 
historians  of  wonderful  facts  which,  but  for  them, 
would  be  unrecorded, — facts  high  above  the  grasp  of 
the  diligent  recorders  of  outward  events  ;  and  materials 
of  history  will  never  be  wanting  to  them,  since  there 
is  nothing  so  beautiful  but  has  in  it  the  promise  of  a 
higher  beauty,  nothing  so  true  but  enfolds  the  elements 
of  a  wider  and  more  universal  truth. 


SONG-WRITING. 


From  this  to  that,  from  that  to  this  he  flies, 
Feels  music's  pulse  in  all  her  arteries. 

With  flash  of  high-born  fancies,  here  and  there 
Dancing  in  lofty  measures,  and  anon 
Creeps  on  the  soft  touch  of  a  tender  tone. 
Whose  trembling  murmurs,  melting  in  wild  airs, 
Run  to  and  fro  complaining  their  sweet  cares; 
Because  those  precious  mysteries  that  dwell 
In  music's  ravished  soul  he  dare  not  tell, 
But  whisper  to  the  world. 

Crashawe  {from  Strada). 

The  songs  of  a  nation  are  like  wild  flowers  pressed, 
as  it  were,  by  chance  between  the  blood-stained  pages 
of  history.  As  if  man's  heart  had  paused  for  a 
moment  in  its  dusty  march,  and  looked  back  with  a 
flutter  of  the  pulse  and  a  tearful  smile  upon  the  simple 
peacefulness  of  happier  and  purer  days,  gathering  some 
wayside  blossom  to  remind  it  of  childhood  and  home, 
amid  the  crash  of  battle  or  the  din  of  the  market. 
Listening  to  these  strains  of  pastoral  music,  m'c  are 
lured  away  from  the  records  of  patriotic  frauds,  of  a 
cannibal  policy  which  devours  whole  nations  with  the 
refined  appetite  of  a  converted  and  polished  Polyphe- 
mus who  has  learned  to  eat  with  a  silver  fork,  and 
never  to  put  his  knife  iu  his  mouth, — we  forget  the 


272  SONG-WRITING. 

wars  and  the  false  standards  of  honor  which  have 
cheated  men  into  wearing  the  fratricidal  brand  of  Cain, 
as  if  it  were  but  the  glorious  trace  of  a  dignifying 
wreath,  and  hear  the  rustle  of  the  leaves  and  the  inno- 
cent bleat  of  lambs,  and  the  low  murmur  of  lovers 
beneath  the  moon  of  Arcady,  or  the  long  twilight  of 
the  north.  The  earth  grows  green  again,  and  flowers 
spring  up  in  the  scorching  footprints  of  Alaric,  but 
where  love  hath  but  only  smiled,  some  gentle  trace  of 
it  remains  freshly  for  ever.  The  infinite  sends  its 
messages  to  us  by  untutored  spirits,  and  the  lips  of 
little  children,  and  the  unboastful  beauty  of  simple 
nature ;  not  with  the  sound  of  trumpet,  and  the  tramp 
of  mail-clad  hosts.  Simplicity  and  commonness  are 
the  proofs  of  Beauty's  divinity.  Earnestly  and  beau- 
tifully touching  is  this  eternity  of  simj)le  feeling  from 
age  to  age, — this  trustfulness  with  which  the  heart 
flings  forth  to  the  wind  its  sybilline  leaves  to  be 
gathered  and  cherished  as  oracles  for  ever.  The  un- 
wieldv  current  of  life  whirls  and  writhes  and  struico-les 
muddily  onward,  and  there  in  midcurrent  the  snow- 
white  lilies  blow  in  unstained  safety,  generation  after 
generation.  The  cloud-capt  monuments  of  mighty 
kings  and  captains  crumble  into  dust  and  mingle  with 
the  nameless  ashes  of  those  who  reared  them  ;  but  we 
know  perhaps  the  name  and  even  the  color  of  the  hair 
and  eyes  of  some  humble  shepherd's  mistress  who 
brushed  through  the  dew  to  meet  her  lover's  kiss, 
when  the  rising  sun  glittered  on  the  golden  images 
that  crowned  the  palace-roof  of  Semiramis.  Fleets 
and  navies  are  overwhelmed  and  forgotten,  but  some 
tiny  love-freighted  argosy,  launched  (like  those  of  the 


SONG-WRITING.  273 

Hindoo  maidens)  upon  tlie  stream  of  time  in  days 
now  behind  the  horizon,  floats  down  to  us  with  its 
frail  lamp  yet  burning.  Theories  for  which  great 
philosophers  wore  their  hearts  out,  histories  over 
which  the  eyes  of  wise  men  ached  for  weary  years, 
creeds  for  which  hundreds  underwent  an  exultiuir 
martyrdom,  poems  wliich  had  once  quickened  the 
beating  of  the  world's  great  heart,  and  the  certainty 
of  whose  deathlessness  had  made  death  sweet  to  the 
poet, — all  these  have  mouldered  to  nothing;  but  some 
word  of  love,  some  outvent  of  a  sorrow  wliich  haply 
filled  only  one  pair  of  eyes  with  tears,  these  seem  to 
have  become  a  part  of  earth's  very  life-blood.  They 
live  because  those  who  wrote  never  thought  whether 
they  would  live  or  not.  Because  they  were  the  chil- 
dren of  human  nature,  human  nature  has  tenderly 
fostered  them,  while  children  only  begot  to  perpetuate 
the  foolish  vanity  of  their  father's  name  must  trust 
for  their  support  to  such  inheritance  of  livelihood  as 
their  father  left  them.  There  are  no  pensions  and  no 
retired  lists  in  the  pure  democracy  of  nature  and 
truth. 

A  good  song  is  as  if  the  poet  had  pressed  his  heart 
against  the  paper,  and  that  could  have  conveyed  its 
hot,  tumultuous  throbbiugs  to  the  reader.  The  low, 
musical  rustle  of  the  Avind  amono;  the  leaves  is  sontr- 
like,  but  the  slow  unfolding  of  the  leaves  and  blos- 
soms, and  under  them  the  conception  and  ripening  of 
the  golden  fruit  through  long  summer  days  of  sun- 
shine and  of  rain,  are  like  the  grander,  but  not  more 
beautiful  or  eternal  offspring  of  poesv.  The  song- 
writer must  take  his  jslace  somewhere  between   the 

13 


274  SOXG-WEITING. 

poet  and  the  musician,  and  must  form  a  distinct  class 
bv  himself.  The  faculty  of  writing  songs  is  certainly 
a  peculiar  one,  and  as  perfect  in  its  kind  as  that  of 
writing  epics.  They  can  only  be  written  by  true 
poets;  like  the  mistletoe,  they  are  slender  and  delicate, 
but  they  only  grow  in  oaks.  Burns  is  as  ^vholly  a  poet, 
but  not  as  great  a  poet,  as  Milton.  Songs  relate  to  us 
the  experience  and  hoarded  learning  of  the  feelings, 
greater  poems  detail  that  of  the  mind.  One  is  the 
result  of  tliat  wisdom  whicli  the  heart  keeps  by 
remaining  young,  the  other  of  that  which  it  gains  by 
growing  old.  Songs  are  like  inspired  nursery-rhymes, 
which  make  the  soul  childlike  agrain.  The  best  sono;s 
have  always  some  tinge  of  a  mysterious  sadness  in 
them.  They  seem  written  in  the  night-watches  of  the 
heart,  and  reflect  the  spiritual  moonlight,  or  the  shift- 
ing flaslies  of  the  northern-light,  or  the  trembling 
lustre  of  the  stai-s,  rather  than  the  broad  and  cheerful 
benediction  of  the  sunny  day.  Often  they  are  the 
merest  breaths,  vague  snatches  of  half-heard  music 
which  fell  dreamily  on  the  ear  of  the  poet  while  he 
was  listening  for  grander  melodies,  and  whicli  he 
hummed  over  afterwaixl  to  himself,  not  knowing  how 
or  where  he  learned  them. 

A  true  song  touches  no  feeling  or  prejudice  of  edu- 
cation, but  only  the  simple,  original  elements  of  our 
common  nature.  And  perhaps  the  mission  of  the 
song-writer  may  herein  be  deemed  loftier  and  diviner 
than  any  other,  since  he  sheds  delight  over  more 
hearts,  and  opens  more  rude  natures  to  the  advances 
of  civilization,  refinement,  and  a  softened  humanity, 
by  revealing  to  them  a  beauty  in  their  own  simple 


SONG-WRITING.  275 

thoughts  and  feelings  which  wins  them  unconsciously 
to  a  dignified  reverence  for  their  own  noble  capabilities 
as  men.  He  who  aspires  to  the  highest  triumphs  of 
the  muse,  must  look  at  first  for  appreciation  and  sym- 
pathy only  from  a  few,  and  must  wait  till  the  progress 
of  education  shall  have  enlarged  the  number  and 
quickened  the  sensibility  and  apprehension  of  his 
readers.  But  the  song- writer  finds  his  ready  welcome 
in  those  homespun,  untutored  artistic  perceptions 
which  are  the  birthright  of  every  human  soul,  and 
which  are  the  sure  pledges  of  the  coming  greatness 
and  ennoblement  of  the  race.  He  makes  men's  hearts  ) 
ready  to  receive  the  teachings  of  his  nobler  brother. 
He  is  not  positively,  but  only  relatively,  a  greater 
blessing  to  his  kind,  since,  in  God's  good  season,  by 
the  sure  advance  of  freedom,  all  men  shall  be  able  to 
enjoy  what  is  now  the  privilege  of  the  few,  and 
Shakespeare  and  Milton  shall  be  as  dear  to  the  heart 
of  the  cottager  and  the  craftsman  as  Burns  or 
Beranger.  Full  of  grandeur,  then,  and  yet  fuller  of 
awful  responsibility,  is  the  calling  of  the  song-writer. 
It  is  no  wild  fancy  to  deem  that  he  may  shape  the 
destiny  of  coming  ages.  Like  an  electric  spark,  his 
musical  thought  flits  glittering  from  heart  to  heart 
and  from  lip  to  lip  through  the  land.  Luther's  noble 
hymns  made  more  and  truer  protestants  than  ever  did 
his  sermons  or  liis  tracts.  The  song  hummed  by  some 
toiling  mother  to  beguile  the  long  monotony  of  the 
spinning-wheel  may  have  turned  the  current  of  her 
child's  thoughts  as  he  played  about  her  knee,  and 
given  the  world  a  hero  or  apostle.  We  know  not 
when  or  in  what  soil  God  may  plant  the  seeds  of  our 


276  SONG-WBITING. 

spiritual  enlightenment  and  regeneration,  but  we  may 
be  sure  that  it  will  be  in  some  piece  of  clay  common 
to   all   mankind,    some  heart   whose   simple   feelings 
call  the  M'hole  world  kin.     Not  from  mighty  poet  or 
deep-seeking  philosopher  will  come  the  word  which 
all  men  long  to  hear,  but  in  the  lowly  Nazareth  of 
some  unlearned  soul,  in  the  rough  manger  of  rudest, 
humblest  sympathies,  shall  the  true  ISIessiah  be  born 
and  cradled.     In  the  inspired  heart,  not  in  the  philo- 
sophic intellect,   all  true  reforms  originate,  and  it  is 
over  this  that  the  song-writer   has   unbridled    sway. 
He  concentrates  the  inarticulate  murmur  and  longing 
of  a  trampled  people  into  the  lightning-flash  of  a  fiery 
verse,  and,  ere  the  guilty  heart  of  the  oppressor  has 
ceased  to  flutter,  follows  the  deafening  thunderclap  of 
revolution.     He  gives  vent  to  his  love  of  a  flower  or 
a  maiden,  and  adds  so  much  to  the  store  of  e very-day 
romance  in  the  heart  of  the  world,  refining  men's 
crude  perceptions  of  beauty  and  dignifying  their  sweet 
natural  affections.     Once  it  was  the  fashion  to  write 
pastorals,  but  he  teaches  us  that  it  is  not  nature  to 
make  all  men  talk  like  rustics,  but  rather  to  show  that 
one  heart  beats  under  homespun  and  broadcloth,  and 
that  it  alone  is  truly  classical,  and  gives  eternity  to 
verse. 

Songs  are  scarcely  amenable  to  the  common  laws  of 
criticism.  If  anything  were  needed  to  prove,  the 
utter  foolishness  of  the  assertion  that  that  only  is 
good  poetry  which  can  be  reduced  to  good  prose,  we 
migiit  summon  as  witnesses  the  most  perfect  songs  in 
our  language.  The  best  part  of  a  song  lies  often  not 
at  all  in  the  words,  but  in  the  metre,  perhaps,  or  the 


SONG-WRITING.  277 

structure  of  the  verse,  in  the  wonderful  melody  which 
arose  of  itself  from  the  feeling  of  the  writer,  and 
which  unawares  throws  the  heart  into  the  same  frame 
of  thought.  Ben  Jonson  was  used  to  write  his  poems 
first  in  prose,  and  then  translate  or  distil  them  into 
verse,  and  had  we  not  known  the  fiict,  we  might  have 
almost  guessed  it  from  reading  some  of  his  lyrics,  the 
mechanical  structure  of  whose  verse  is  as  different 
from  the  spontaneous  growth  of  a  true  song  (which 
must  be  written  one  way  or  not  at  all)  as  a  paper 
flower  is  from  a  violet.  In  a  good  song  the  words 
seem  to  have  given  birth  to  the  melody,  and  the 
melody  to  the  words.  The  strain  of  music  seems  to 
have  wandered  into  the  poet's  heart,  and  to  have  been 
the  thread  round  which  his  thoughts  have  crystallized. 
There  is  always  something  of  personal  interest  in 
songs.  They  are  the  true  diary  of  the  poet's  spiritual 
life,  the  table-talk  of  his  heart.  There  is  nothing 
egoistical  in  them,  for  the  inward  history  of  a  poet  is 
never  a  commonplace  one,  and  egoism  can  only  be  a 
trait  of  little  minds,  its  disagreeable  quality  lying 
wholly  in  this,  that  it  constantly  thrusts  in  our  faces 
the  egoist's  individuality,  w^hich  is  really  the  least 
noticeable  thing  about  him.  We  love  to  hear  wonder- 
ful men  talk  of  themselves,  because  they  are  better 
wortli  hearing  about  than  anything  else,  and  because 
what  we  learn  of  them  is  not  so  much  a  history  of  self 
as  a  history  of  nature,  and  a  statement  of  facts  therein 
which  are  so  many  fingerposts  to  set  us  right  in  our 
search  after  true  spiritual  knowledge.  Songs  are 
translations  from  the  language  of  the  spiritual  into 
that  of  the  natural  world. 


278  SONG-WRITIXG. 

As  love  is  the  highest  and  holiest  of  all  feelings,  so 
those  songs  are  best  in  which  love  is  the  essence.  All 
poetry  must  rest  on  love  for  a  foundation,  or  it  will 
only  last  so  long  as  the  bad  passions  it  appeals  to,  and 
which  it  is  the  end  of  true  poesy  to  root  out.  If  there 
be  not  in  it  a  love  of  man,  there  must  at  least  be  a  love 
of  nature,  which  lies  next  below  it,  and  which,  as  is 
the  nature  of  all  beauty,  will  lead  its  convert  upward 
to  that  nobler  and  wider  sympathy.  True  poetry 
is  but  the  perfect  reflex  of  true  knowledge,  and  true 
knowledge  is  spiritual  knowledge,  which  comes  only 
of  love,  and  which,  when  it  has  solved  the  mystery  of 
one,  even  the  smallest  effluence  of  the  eternal  beauty, 
which  surrounds  us  like  an  atmosphere,  becomes  a 
clue  leading  to  the  heart  of  the  seeming  labyrinth. 
All  our  sympathies  lie  in  such  close  neighborhood, 
that  when  music  is  drawn  from  one  string,  all  the  rest 
vibrate  in  sweet  accord.  As  in  the  womb  the  brain  of 
the  child  changes,  with  a  steady  rise,  through  a  like- 
ness to  that  of  one  animal  and  another,  till  it  is  per- 
fected in  that  of  man,  the  highest  animal,  so  in  this 
life,  which  is  but  as  a  Avomb  wherein  we  are  shaping 
to  be  born  in  the  next,  we  are  led  upw\ard  from  love 
to  love  till  we  ai-rive  at  the  love  of  God,  which  is  the 
highest  love.  Many  things  unseal  the  springs  of 
tenderness  in  us  ere  the  full  glory  of  our  nature  gushes 
forth  to  the  one  benign  spirit  which  interprets  for  us 
all  mystery,  and  is  the  key  to  unlock  all  the  most 
secret  shrines  of  beauty.  Woman  was  given  us  to 
love  chiefly  to  this  end,  that  the  serencuess  and 
strength  which  the  soul  wins  from  that  full  sympathy 
with  one,  might  teach   it  the  more  divine  excellence 


SONG-  WRITING.  279 

of  a  sympathy  witli  all,  and  that  it  was  man's  heart 
only  which  God  shaped  in  his  own  image,  which  it 
can  only  rightly  emblem  in  an  all-surrounding  love. 
Therefore,  we  put  first  those  songs  which  tell  of  love, 
since  we  see  in  them  not  an  outpouring  of  selfish  and 
solitary  passion,  but  an  indication  of  that  beautiful 
instinct  which  prompts  the  heart  of  every  man  to  turn 
toward  its  fellows  with  a  smile,  and  to  recognize  its 
master  even  in  the  disguise  of  olay ;  and  we  confess 
that  the  sight  of  the  rudest  and  simplest  love-verses 
in  the  corner  of  a  village  newspaper  oftener  bring 
tears  of  delight  into  our  eyes  than  awaken  a  sense  of 
the  ludicrous.  In  fancy  we  see  the  rustic  lovers  wan- 
dering hand  in  hand,  a  sweet  fashion  not  yet  extinct 
in  our  quiet  New  England  villages,  and  crowding  all 
the  past  and  future  with  the  blithe  sunshine  of  the 
present.  The  modest  loveliness  of  Dorcas  has  revealed 
to  the  delio-hted  heart  of  Reuben  countless  other  beau- 
ties,  of  which,  but  for  her,  he  had  been  careless.  Pure 
and  delicate  sympathies  have  overgrown  protectingly 
the  most  exposed  part  of  his  nature,  as  the  moss 
covers  the  north  side  of  the  tree.  The  perception 
and  reverence  of  her  beauty  has  become  a  new  and 
more  sensitive  conscience  to  him,  which,  like  the  won- 
derful ring  in  the  fairy  tale,  warns  him  against  every 
danger  that  may  assail  his  innocent  self-respect.  For 
the  first  time  he  begins  to  see  something  more  in  the 
sunset  than  an  omen  of  to-morrow's  weather.  The 
flowers,  too,  have  grown  tenderly  dear  to  him  of  a 
sudden,  and,  as  he  plucks  a  sprig  of  blue  succory  from 
the  roadside  to  deck  her  hair  M'ith,  he  is  as  truly  a 
poet  as  Burns,  when  he  embalmed  the   "  mountain 


280  SONG-WRITING. 

daisy  "  in  deathless  rhyme.     Dorcas  thrills  at  sight  of 
quivering  Hesperus  as  keenly  as  ever  Sappho  did,  and, 
as  it  brings   back  to  her,  she   knows  not  how,   the 
memory  of  all  happy  times  in  one,  she  clasps  closer 
the  brown,  toil-hardened   hand   which   she  holds   in 
hers,  and  which  the  heart  that  Avarms  it  makes  as  soft 
as  down  to  her.     She  is  sure  that  the   next  Sabbath 
evening  will  be  as  cloudless  and  happy  as  this.     She 
feels  no  jealousy  of  Reuben's  love  of  the  flowers,  for 
she  knows  that  only  the  pure  in  heart  can  see  God  in 
them,  and  that  they  will  but  teach  him  to  love  better 
the  wild-flower-like  beauties  in  herself,  and  give  him 
impulses  of  kindliness  and  brotherhood  to  all.     Love 
is  the  truest  radicalism,  lifting  all  to  the  same  clear- 
aired  level  of  humble,  thankful  humanity.      Dorcas 
begins  to  think  that  her  childish  dream  has  come  true, 
and  that  she  is  really  an  enchanted  princess,  and  her 
milk-pans  are  forthwith  changed  to  a  service  of  gold 
plate,  with  the  family  arms  engraved  on  the  bottom  of 
each,  the  device  being  a  great  heart,  and  the  legend, 
God  gives,  man  only  takes  away.     Her  taste  in  dress 
has  grown   M'onderfully    more   refined    since    her   be- 
trothal, though  she  never  heard  of  the  Paris  ftishions, 
and  never  had  more  than  one  silk  gown  in  her  life, 
that  one  being  her  mother's  wedding  dress  made  over 
again.     Reuben  has  grown  so  tender-hearted  that  he 
thought  there  might  be  some  good  even  in  "Tran- 
scendentalism," a  terrible    dragon   of   straw,  against 
which  he  had  seen  a  lecturer  at  the  village  lyceum 
valorously  enact  the  St.  George,— nay,  he  goes  so  far 
as  to  think  that  the  slave  women  (black  though  they 
be,    and  therefore  not  deserving  so  much   happiness) 


soya-  WETTING.  28 1 

cannot  be  quite  so  well  off  as  his  sister  in  the  factory, 
and  would  sympathize  with  them  if  the  constitution 
did  not  enjoin  all  good  citizens  not  to  do  so.  But  we 
are  wandering — farewell  Reuben  and  Dorcas!  remem- 
ber that  you  can  only  fulfil  your  vow  of  being  true  to 
each  other  by  being  true  to  all,  and  be  sure  that  death 
can  but  unclasp  your  bodily  hands  that  your  spiritual 
ones  may  be  joined  the  more  closely. 

The  songs  of  our  great  poets  are  unspeakably 
precious.  In  them  find  vent  those  irrepressible  utter- 
ances of  homely  fireside  humanity,  inconsistent  with 
the  loftier  aim  and  self-forgetting  enthusiasm  of  a 
great  poem,  which  preserve  the  finer  and  purer  sensi- 
bilities from  wilting  and  Avithering  under  the  black 
frost  of  ambition.  The  faint  records  of  flitting  im- 
pulses, we  light  upon  them  sometimes  imbedded  round 
the  bases  of  the  basaltic  columns  of  the  epic  or  the 
drama,  like  heedless  insects  or  tender  ferns  which  had 
fallen  in  while  those  gigantic  crystals  were  slowly 
shaping  themselves  in  the  molten  entrails  of  the  soul 
all  aglow  with  the  hidden  fires  of  inspiration,  or  like 
tlie  tracks  of  birds  from  far-off  climes,  which  had 
lighted  upon  the  ductile  mass  ere  it  had  hardened  into 
eternal  rock.  They  make  the  lives  of  the  masters  of 
the  lyre  encouragements  and  helps  to  us,  by  teaching 
us  humbly  to  appreciate  and  sympathize  with,  as 
men,  those  Avhom  we  should  else  almost  have  wor- 
shipped as  beings  of  a  higher  order.  In  Shakespeare's 
dramas  we  watch  with  awe  the  struggles  and  triumphs 
and  defeats,  which  seem  almost  triumphs,  of  his  un- 
matched soul ; — in  his  songs  we  can  yet  feel  the  beat- 
ing of  a  simple,  warm  heart,  the  mate  of  which  can 


282  SONG-  WRITING. 

be  found  imder  the  first  homespun  frock  you  meet  on 
the  high  road.  He  who,  instead  of  carefully  pluck- 
ing the  fruit  from  the  tree  of  knowledge,  as  others  are 
fain  to,  shook  down  whole  showers  of  leaves  and  twigs 
and  fruit  at  once ;  who  tossed  down  systems  of  morality 
and  philosophy  by  the  handful ;  who  wooed  nature  as 
a  superior,  and  who  carpeted  the  very  earth  beneath 
the  delicate  feet  of  his  fancy  with  such  flowers  of 
poesy  as  bloom  but  once  in  a  hundred  years, — this 
vast  and  divine  genius  in  his  songs  and  his  unequalled 
sonnets,  (which  are  but  epic  songs,  songs  written,  as  it 
were,  for  an  organ  or  rather  ocean  accompaniment,) 
shows  all  the  humbleness,  and  wavering,  and  self- 
distrust,  with  which  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  tempers 
souls  of  the  boldest  aspiration  and  most  nnshaken 
self-help,  as  if  to  remind  them  gently  of  that  brother- 
hood to  assert  and  dignify  whose  claims  they  were  sent 
forth  as  apostles. 

We  mean  to  copy  a  few  of  the  best  songs,  chiefly 
selecting  from  those  of  English  poets.  To  some  of 
our  readers  many  of  our  extracts  will  be  new,  and 
those  who  are  familiar  with  them  will  thank  us,  per- 
haps, for  threading  so  many  pearls  upon  one  string. 
We  shall  begin  our  specimens  by  copying  the  first 
verse  of  an  old  English  song,  the  composition  of 
which  Warton  assions  to  the  beginning  of  the  thir- 
teenth  century.  There  seems  to  us  to  be  a  very 
beautiful  and  pure  animal  feeling  of  uatui'e  in  it,  and 
altogether  a  freshness  and  breeziness  which  is  delight- 
ful, after  sifting  over  the  curiosse  tnfelicitates  of  most 
of  the  later  poets.  We  shall  alter  the  spelling  enough 
to  make   it   intelligible   at   a  glance,  and  change  the 


SONG-  WRITING.  283 

tense  of  one  of  the  words  to  give  it  the  metrical  har- 
mony of  the  original. 

Summer  is  acoming  in, 

Loudly  sing  cuckoo ! 
Groweth  seed, 

And  bloweth  mead, 
And  springeth  the  wood  anew : 

Sing  cuckoo !  cuckoo! 

There  is  something  in  this  song  to  us  like  the  smell 
of  a  violet,  which  has  a  felicity  of  association  to  bring 
hack  the  May-day  delights  of  childhood  in  all  their 
innocent  simpleuess,  and  cool  the  feverish  brow  of  the 
present  by  wreathing  around  it  the  dewy  flowers  of 
the  past.  There  is  a  straightforward  plainness  in  this 
little  verse,  which  is  one  of  the  rarest,  as  it  is  also  one 
of  the  most  needful,  gifts  of  a  poet,  who  must  have  a 
man's  head  and  a  child's  heart. 

Chaucer  furnishes  us  with  no  specimen  of  a  song, 
which  we  cannot  but  lament,  since  there  are  verses  of 
his,  in  the  "  Cuckoo  and  the  Nightingale "  and  the 
"  Flower  and  the  Leaf"  especially,  which  run  over 
with  sweetness  both  of  sentiment  and  melody,  and 
have  all  that  delightful  wiintentlonalness  (if  we  may 
use  the  word)  which  is  the  charm  and  essence  of  a 
true  song,  in  which  the  heart,  as  it  were,  speaks  un- 
consciously aloud,  and,  like  Wordsworth's  stock  dove, 
"  broods  over  its  own  sweet  voice."  He  is  like  one  of 
those  plants  which,  though  they  do  not  blossom, 
sprinkle  their  leaves  with  the  hues  which  had  been 
prepared  in  the  sap  to  furnish  forth  the  flowers. 

Although  Shakespeare's  songs  are  so  familiar,  yet 
we  cannot  resist  copying  one  of  them,  since  we  can 


284  SONG-WRITING. 

nowhere  find  such  examples  as  in  him,  who,  like 
nature  herself,  is  as  minutely  perfect  in  his  least  as  in 
his  greatest  work.  His  songs  ai*e  delicate  sea-mosses 
cast  up  by  chance  from  the  deeps  of  that  ocean-like 
heart  in  whose  struggling  abysses  it  seems  a  wonder 
that  such  fragile  perfeetness  could  have  grown  up  in 
safety. 

"  Hark !  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 
And  Phcebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ; 
And  winking  marybiids  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes,  i 

With  everything  that  pretty  bin ; 
My  lady  sweet,  arise, 
Arise,  arise !" 

There  are  some  beautiful  songs  scattered  about 
among  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  plays,  of  which  we 
copy  one  from  "  The  Maid's  Tragedy."  There  is  a 
humble  plaiutiveness  in  it  which  is  touching. 

"  Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse 

Of  the  dismal  yew  ; 
Maidens,  willow-branches  bear, 

iSay  I  died  true : 
My  love  was  false,  but  T  was  firm 

From  my  hour  of  birth  : 
Upon  my  buried  bosom  lie 

Lightly,  gentle  earth." 

Ben  Jonson  was  scarcely  of  fine  organization  enough 
to  write  songs  of  the  first  order.  A  vein  of  prosaic 
common-sense  runs  quite  through  him,  and  he  seems 
never  to  have  wholly  forgotten  his  old  profession  of 


SONG-WRITING.  285 

bricklaying,  generally  putting  his  thoughts  together 
with  as  much  squareness  and  regularity  as  so  many 
bricks.  It  is  only  a  blissful  ignorance  which  presumes 
that  poetic  souls  want  common-sense.  In  truth,  men 
are  poets  not  in  proportion  to  their  want  of  any  faculty 
whatsoever,  but  inasmuch  as  they  are  gifted  with  a  very 
iHicommon  sense,  which  enables  them  always  to  see 
things  purely  in  their  relations  to  spirit,  and  not  matter. 
Rare  Ben  did  not  wander  musingly  up  Parnassus, 
lured  onward  by  winding  paths  and  flowery  nooks  of 
green  stillness,^  and  half-glimpses  of  divine  shapes,  the 
oreads  of  that  enchanted  hill,  but,  having  resolved  to 
climb,  he  struggled  manfully  up,  little  heeding  what 
flowers  he  might  crush  with  his  stout  pedestrian  shoes. 
We  copy  two  verses  from  the  "  Masque  of  the  For- 
tunate Isles," — merely  alluding  to  his  sweet  song  "  To 
Celia,"  as  too  well  known  to  need  quotation. 

"  Look  forth,  thou  shepherd  of  the  seas, 
And  of  the  ports  that  keep'st  the  keys, 

And  to  your  Neptune  tell, 
Macaria,  prince  of  all  the  isles, 
Wherein  there  nothing  grows  but  smiles, 

Doth  here  put  in  to  dwell. 

"  The  windes  are  sweet,  and  gently  blow, 
But  Zephyrus,  no  breath  they  know, 

The  father  of  the  flowers  : 
By  him  the  virgin  violets  live, 
And  every  plant  doth  odors  give 
As  new  as  are  the  bowers." 

From  William  Browne,  a  pastoral  poet  of  great 
sweetness  and  delicacy,  w^e  glean  the  following  stanzas. 
They  are  somewhat  similar  to  those  of  Jonson,  copied 


286  SONG-WRITING. 

above,  but  are  more  purely  songlike,  and  more  poetical 
in  expression.  Milton,  perhaps,  remembered  the  two 
lines  that  we  have  italicized,  when  he  was  writing  his 
exquisite  song  in  Comus,  a  part  of  which  we  shall 
presently  quote.  The  verses  are  from  the  fifth  song 
in  the  second  book  of  "  Brittania's  Pastorals." 

"  Swell  then,  gently  swell,  ye  floods, 

As  proud  of  what  ye  bear, 
And  nymphs  that  in  low  coral  woods 

String  pearls  upon  your  hair,  • 

Ascend,  and  tell  if  ere  this  day 

A  fairer  prize  was  seen  at  sea. 

"  Blow,  but  gently  blow,  fair  wind, 

From  the  forsaken  shore. 
And  be  as  to  the  halcyon  kind 

Till  we  have  ferried  o'er. 
So  may'st  thou  still  have  leave  to  blow 

And  fan  the  way  where  she  shall  go." 

From  Davenant,  whose  '^  Gondibert "  deserves  to 
be  better  known,  if  it  were  only  for  the  excellence  of 
its  stately  preface,  we  copy  the  following.  It  is  not  a 
very  good  song,  but  there  is  a  pleasant  exaggeration 
of  fancy  in  it,  which  is  one  of  the  prerogatives  of 
knightly  lovers,  and  we  can  pardon  much  to  a  man 
who  prevented  a  dissolute  tyrant  from  "  lifting  his 
spear  against  the  muse's  bower"  of  the  blind  old 
republican,  who  Mas  even  then  meditating  Paradise 
Lost. 

"The  lark  now  leaves  his  watery  nest, 
And  climbing,  shakes  his  dewy  wings; 
He  takes  this  window  for  the  East, 

And  to  implore  your  light  he  sings : 
'Awake,  awake,  the  morn  will  never  rise 
Till  she  can  dress  her  beauty  at  your  eyes. 


SONG-WRITING.  287 

"'The  merchant  bows  unto  the  seaman's  star, 
The  ploughman  from  the  sun  his  season  takes, 
But  still  the  lover  wonders  what  they  are. 

Who  look  for  day  before  his  mistress  wakes; 
Awake,  awake  !  break  through  your  veils  of  lawn, 
Then  draw  your  curtains  and  begin  the  dawn  ! '  " 

Immediately  after  the  old  dramatists  come  a  swarm 
of  soug-writers,  of  whom  Herrick  is  perhaps  the  best 
and  most  unconscious.  With  great  delicacy  of  senti- 
ment, he  often  writes  with  a  graceful  ease  of  versifica- 
tion, and  a  happiness  of  accent  unusual  in  his  time. 
Very  aptly  did  he  name  his  poems  "  Hesperides,"  for 
a  huge  dragon  of  grossness  and  obscenity  crawls  loath- 
somely among  the  forest  of  golden  apples.  AVe  extract 
his  well-known  "  Night-piece "  to  Julia,  as  a  good 
specimen  of  his  powers.  Many  detached  fragments 
of  his  other  poems  would  make  beautiful  and  complete 
songs  by  themselves. 

"  Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee, 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee, 
And  the  elves  also, 
Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

"No  will-o'-the-wisp  mislight  thee. 
Nor  snake  nor  slow-worm  bite  thee ; 

But  on,  on  thy  way, 

Not  making  a  stay. 
Since  ghosts  there's  none  to  affright  thee ! 

"  Let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber ; 
What  though  the  moon  does  slumber, 

The  stars  of  the  night 

Will  lend  thee  their  light 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number  I 


288  SONG-WRITING. 

"  Tlien,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me ; 

And,  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet. 
My  soul  I'll  pour  unto  thee !  " 

"William  Habiugton  would  deserve  a  place  here,  if 
it  were  ouly  for  the  tender  purity  of  all  his  poems. 
They  were  addressed  to  the  womau  who  afterward 
became  his  wife,  and  are  worthy  of  a  chaste  aud  dig- 
nified love.  His  poems  are  scarcely  any  of  them  good 
songs,  aud  the  one  we  quote  is  more  remarkable  for  a 
delicate  sympathy  with  outward  nature,  which  is  one 
of  the  rewards  of  pure  love,  thau  for  melody.  It  is 
"  upon  Castara's  departure." 

"  Vows  are  vain.     No  suppliant  breath 
Stays  the  speed  of  swift-heeled  death  ; 
Life  with  her  is  gone,  and  I 
Learn  but  a  new  way  to  die. 
See,  the  flowers  condole,  and  all 
Wither  in  my  funeral : 
The  bright  lily,  as  if  day 
Parted  from  her,  fades  away ; 
Violets  hang  their  heads,  lose 
All  their  beauty  ;  that  the  rose 
A  sad  part  in  sorrow  bears, 
Witness  all  these  dewy  tears, 
Which  as  pearls  or  diamond  like, 
Swell  upon  her  blushing  cheek. 
All  things  mourn,  but  oh,  behold 
How  the  withered  marigold 
Closeth  up,  now  she  is  gone, 
Judging  her  the  setting  sun." 

From  Carew's  poems  we  have  plucked  one  little 
flower,  fragrant  with  spring-time  and  fanciful  love. 
It  is  "The  Primrose." 


SONG-WRITING.  289 

"  Ask  me  why  I  send  you  here 
This  firstling  of  the  infant  year, — 
Ask  me  why  I  send  to  you 
This  primrose  all  bepearled  with  dew, — 
I  straight  will  whisper  in  your  ears, 
The  sweets  of  love  are  washed  with  tears: 
Ask  me  why  this  flov.-er  doth  show 
So  yellow,  green  and  sickly,  too, — 
Ask  me  why  the  stalk  is  weak 
And  bending,  yet  it  doth  not  break, 
I  must  tell  you  these  discover 
What  doubts  and  fears  are  in  a  lover." 

Lovelace  is  well  known  for  his  devoted  loyalty  as 
well  as  for  the  felicity  of  expression,  and  occasional 
loftiness  of  feeling  which  distinguishes  his  verses.  The 
first  stanza  of  his  address  to  a  grasshopper  is  wonder- 
fully summer-like  and  full  of  airy  grace. 

"  Oh,  thou  tliat  swingest  in  the  waving  hair 
Of  some  well-tilled  oaten  beard, 
Drunk  every  niglit  with  a  delicious  tear 
Dropt  thee  from  heaven —  ' ' 

We  copy  his  admired  poem,  "  To  Lucasta  on  going 
to  the  wars." 

"  Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind. 
That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 
To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

"  True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase 
The  first  foe  in  the  field, 
And  with  a  stronger  fiiith  embrace 
A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

"Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such, 
As  you  too  fhall  adore  ; 
19 


290  SONG-WBITING. 

I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honor  more." 

Cowley's  "  Grasshopper,"  founded  on,  rather  than 
translated  from,  Anacreon,  has  all  the  spontaneous 
merit  of  an  original  song.  We  should  quote  it  had 
we  room.  Waller,  whose  fame  as  a  poet  far  exc;els  his 
general  merit,  wrote  two  exquisite  songs — "  On  a 
Rose,"  and  "On  a  Girdle."  This  last  we  extract. 
The  closing  lines  of  the  song  are  in  the  happiest  vein 
of  extravagant  sentiment. 

"  That  which  her  slender  waist  confined, 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind : 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown. 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

"  It  was  my  heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer: 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love, 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move! 

"  A  narrow  compass !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair ; 
Give  me  but  what  this  riband  bound. 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round ! " 

Milton's  songs  are  worthy  of  him.  They  are  all 
admirable,  and  we  can  only  wonder  how  the  same 
spirit  which  revelled  in  the  fierce  invective  of  the 
"  Defence  against  Salmasius"  could  have  been  at  the 
same  time  so  tenderly  sensitive.  The  lines  which  we 
copy  can  scarce  be  paralleled  in  any  language. 

"  Sabrina  fair. 
Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 
In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 


SONG-WRITING.  291 

The  loose  train  of  thine  amher-dropping  hair ; 
Listen,  for  dear  honor's  sake, 
Goddess  of  the  silver  lake, 
Listen  and  save !  " 

The  true  way  of  judging  the  value  of  any  one  of 
the  arts  is  by  measuring  its  aptness  and  power  to 
advance  the  refinement  and  sustain  the  natural  dignity 
of  mankind.  Men  may  show  rare  genius  in  amusing 
or  satirizing  their  fellow-beings,  or  in  raising  their 
wonder,  or  in  giving  them  excuses  for  all  manner  of 
weakness  by  making  them  believe  that,  although  their 
nature  prompts  them  to  be  angels,  they  are  truly  no 
better  than  worms, — but  only  to  him  will  death  come 
as  a  timely  guide  to  a  higher  and  more  glorious  sphere 
of  action  and  duty,  who  has  done  somewhat,  however 
little,  to  reveal  to  its  soiil  its  beauty,  and  to  awaken  in 
it  an  aspiration  toward  what  only  our  degradation 
forces  us  to  call  an  ideal  life.  It  is  but  a  half  know- 
ledge which  sneers  at  utilitarianism,  as  if  that  word 
may  not  have  a  spiritual  as  well  as  a  material  signif- 
icance. He  is  indeed  a  traitor  to  his  better  nature 
who  would  persuade  men  that  the  use  of  anything  is 
proportioned  to  the  benefit  it  confers  upon  their  animal 
part.  If  the  spirit's  hunger  be  not  satisfied,  the  body 
will  not  be  at  ease,  though  it  slumber  in  Sybaris  and 
feast  with  Apicius.  It  is  the  soul  that  makes  men 
rich  or  poor,  and  he  who  has  given  a  nation  a  truer 
conception  of  beauty,  which  is  the  body  of  truth,  as 
love  is  its  spirit,  has  done  more  for  its  happiness  and 
to  secure  its  freedom  than  if  he  had  doubled  its 
defences  or  its  revenue.  He  who  has  taught  a  man  to 
look  kindly  on  a  flower  or  an  insect,  has  thereby  made 


292  SONG-WRITING. 

him  sensible  of  the  beauty  of  tenderness  toward  men, 
and  rendered  charity  and  loving  kindness  so  much 
the  more  easy,  and  so  much  the  more  necessary 
to  him.  To  make  life  more  reverend  in  the  eyes 
of  the  refined  and  educated  may  be  a  noble  am- 
bition in  the  scholar  or  the  poet,  but  to  reveal  to 
the  poor  and  ignorant  and  degraded  those  divine 
arms  of  the  eternal  beauty  which  encircle  them 
lovingly  by  day  and  night,  to  teach  them  that  they 
also  are  children  of  one  Father,  and  the  nearer  haply 
to  his  heart  for  the  very  want  and  wretchedness  which 
half-persuaded  them  they  were  orphan  and  forgotten, 
this,  truly,  is  the  task  of  one  who  is  greater  than  the 
poet  or  the  scholar,  namely,  a  true  man, — and  this 
belongs  to  the  song- writer.  The  poet,  as  he  wove  his 
simple  rhymes  of  love,  or  the  humble  delights  of  the 
poor,  dreamed  not  how  many  toil-worn  eyes  brightened 
and  how  many  tyrant  hearts  softened  with  reviving 
memories  of  childhood  and  innocence.  That  which 
alone  can  make  men  truly  happy  and  exalted  in 
nature  is  freedom ;  and  freedom  of  spirit,  without 
which  mere  bodily  liberty  is  but  vilest  slavery,  can 
only  be  achieved  by  cultivating  men's  sympathy  with 
the  beautiful.  The  heart  that  makes  free  only  is  free, 
and  the  tyrant  always  is  truly  the  bondman  of  his 
slaves.  The  longing  of  every  soul  is  for  freedom, 
which  it  gains  only  by  helping  other  souls  to  theirs. 
The  power  of  the  song-writer  is  exalted  above  others 
in  this,  that  his  words  bring  solace  to  the  lowest  ranks 
of  men,  loosing  their  spirits  from  thraldom  by  cher- 
ishing to  life  again  their  numbed  and  deadened  sym- 
pathies, and  bringing  them  forth  to  expand  and  purify 


SONG-WBITING.  293 

in  the  uucloudecl,  impartial  sunshine  of  humanity. 
Here,  truly,  is  a  work  worthy  of  angels,  whose  bright- 
ness is  but  the  more  clearly  visible  when  they  are 
ministering  in  the  dark  and  benighted  hovels  of  life, 
and  whose  wings  grow  to  a  surer  and  more  radiant 
strength,  while  they  are  folded  to  enter  these  humblest 
tenements  of  clay,  than  when  they  are  outspread 
proudly  for  the  loftiest  and  most  exulting  flight.  The 
divinity  of  man  is  indeed  wonderful  and  glorious  in 
the  mighty  and  rare  soul,  but  how  much  more  so  is  it 
in  the  humble  and  common  one,  and  how  far  greater  a 
thing  is  it  to  discern  and  reverence  it  there !  We  hear 
men  often  enough  speak  of  seeing  God  in  the  stars 
and  the  flowers,  but  they  will  never  be  truly  religious 
till  they  learn  to  behold  him  in  each  other  also, 
where  he  is  most  easily  yet  most  rarely  discovered. 
But  to  have  become  blessed  enough  to  find  him  iu 
anything  is  a  sure  pledge  of  finding  him  in  all ;  and 
many  times,  perhaps,  some  snatch  of  artless  melody 
floating  over  the  land,  as  if  under  the  random  tutelage 
of  the  breeze,  may  have  given  the  hint  of  its  high 
calling  to  many  a  soul  which  else  had  lain  torpid  and 
imbruted.  Great  principles  work  out  their  fulfilment 
with  the  slightest  and  least  regarded  tools,  and  destiny 
may  chance  to  speak  to  us  in  the  smell  of  a  buttercup 
or  the  music  of  the  commonest  air. 

After  beginning  this  article,  we  soon  found  that  the 
limits  of  a  single  number  were  far  too  narrow  to  bring 
down  our  specimens  to  the  neighborhood  of  the  pres- 
ent day.  Many  of  the  modern  songs  are  the  best  that 
have  been  written,  and  will  better  sustain  our  high 
estimate  than  those  which  we  have  been  obliged  to 


294 


SONG-WEITING. 


quote  in  order  to  give  our  remarks  some  slight  show 
of  completeness  throughout.  We  have  perhaps  spoken 
rather  according  to  our  idea  of  what  songs  should  be, 
than  to  a  strict  estimate  of  what  they  are.  We  shall 
resume  the  subject  at  some  future  day,  and  give  some- 
thing toward  a  more  complete  analysis  of  the  subject 
than  our  time  has  allowed  us  in  this  essay. 


THE   END. 


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